


True to the End

by CorsicanFiend



Category: Pyre (Video Game)
Genre: Action/Adventure, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-05
Updated: 2018-09-05
Packaged: 2019-07-07 05:39:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 36,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15901998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CorsicanFiend/pseuds/CorsicanFiend
Summary: It is said that when the stars align, the Rites shall come to bear. But now there are no more stars, and the Rites have ended alongside them. The Reader has been left in the Downside, their future undetermined. Yet despite the troubles they faced during the Rites, they will find it was nothing compared to the trials that await them now. Happy endings are not so easy to obtain. (Tags will be updated as the story progresses)





	1. Riteball!

* * *

Shanna approached the red door hesitantly, before reaching out with a feathered limb and giving it a few good knocks.

        “Hello? Are you in there?”

No response.

_Well, that’s just perfect,_ the harp thought to herself. She waited a moment for knocking again, only to be met with the same lack of response.

“Hellooooo? Anybody home?”

Barker said that that he saw him heading for the wagon, yet he didn’t seem to be responding. Maybe he was asleep? She reached out to shake the doorknob, only to have the door slowly swing open with a long creak.

        Shanna slowly peaked her head inside the doorway. The inside of the wagon was larger than it appeared on the outside, having a large rug, a wooden round table, a desk, and ladder leading upward spread across its wooden flooring. Shelves lined the walls, containing all sorts of knick-knacks from vials to bones and even a fancy knightly crest, glittering softly in the daylight brought in by the open doorway. Five ropes hung from the ceiling, tied to handholds meant for piloting. What caught her attention most, however, was the table situated just left of a tiny stairway leading to another room of the wagon. Multiple books were scattered across it, however, they all seemed identical, bearing a smooth yet tough beige hide and the eight-starred symbol of the Scribes.

        Shanna stared at the book, and carefully stepped into the room. She knew she couldn’t read, yet had always been entranced by the idea of knowledge and wisdom that supposedly lied upon the pages of old. She had never actually seen any copy of the Book of Rites in person, before. What secrets did those old books hold that was so important, anyway? What kind of-  


        The harp was suddenly brought back to her senses by something small and hard roughly bumping into her head.

        “Ow!” She stumbled back, only for the back of her skull to smash into a bell, causing a loud _bang_ to resonate throughout the wagon.

        Shanna immediately stifled her next cry of pain, the hairs on the back of neck shooting up and a cold chill darting down her spine. Her eyes quickly scanned the room, looking for any sort of movement or proof that she had been heard. Seconds crawled past as she anxiously waited. Only after she was absolutely sure she didn’t alert anyone to her presence did the harp let out a breath, her nerves slowly returning from the heights they had just soared to.

Her eyes looked to what had hit her and were met by a small, shimmering purple stone that floated through the air as if completely ignoring gravity. She frowned, and swatted it away, causing it to fly over to another corner of the room. Her mother had always told Shanna not to trust magic.

_He’s probably not even here,_ she told herself. Her eyes slowly returned to the closed tomes lying in front of her. Shanna walked over to them, before taking one into her brown wings. Although harps were not as dexterous as nomads and some of the other races, the tips of their wings had small, individual muscles that allowed them to accomplish basic tasks with them. She ran those muscles over the cover of the book. It was far harder than its smooth appearance had led her to believe, likely the reason as to why it didn’t bear a single scratch or smudge upon it.

Shanna flipped open the book, revealing its first page. Although she couldn’t make out the characters, her attention was captured by the way the page seemed to almost glimmer. Small spots of light appearing and then disappearing as quickly as they had arrived. The whole page seemed to sparkle like the stars in the night sky, and she couldn’t help but find a certain beauty in-

“Looking for something?”

A voice rang out from in front of her causing her to peer up from the book. Holding onto the open doorframe with one hand and peering down at her was a cloaked figure, the same one she was hoping _not_ to run into during her venture into the wagon. He wore a simple gray shirt and trousers along with worn traveling boots, but most striking was the beige cloak he bore, sharing the same color as the hide that bound the Book of Rites. The hood was pulled up, helping to obscure his face from the small amount of light that peeked in from the door Shanna left open.

The harp quickly let go of the book with a shriek, causing it to land harmlessly on the table where she had first retrieved it. “I-uh-I was just looking…”

“For what?”

“At the book-I mean you, I was looking for you, but I knocked and you weren’t there and then the door was open so I came in and I saw the book and this stupid floating rock hit my head and I was like ‘ow, that hurt,’ then my head hit a bell and-“

“Are you alright?”

The question caught Shanna off guard, and she brushed a few white locks of hair out of her face before responding. “Oh, I’m fine,” she stammered. “It didn’t really hurt that much.”

“That’s not what I meant.” The cloaked man replied. “You seem a bit… startled.”

“Well yeah, because you scared me when you snuck up on me like that!”

“You realize I live here, right?”

Shanna blinked. “Well, yeah, sure, but you didn’t need to be all creepy about it!”

The figure blinked back at her. “Creepy?”

“Well yeah!” The harp shot back, her embarrassment beginning to fade. “You’re always off on your own and you never stop carrying that weird orb around. Plus, you never really talk to anyone, anyways.”

“I talk to people…”

“And you’re always wearing that cloak, are you trying to hide your face or something?”

“I’ll have you now this cloak is quite comfortable, actually. Protects from the sunlight, too.”

“And most of the time you’re hold up in here, anyways.” Shanna continued, “What do you do all day, anyways?”

“Read.” The man replied. “Write, why-“He stopped himself, before audibly taking a breath moving to get a better look at her. “Did you come in here just to call me creepy?”

                “Oh!” the harp exclaimed, having remembered her purpose for coming to the wagon in the first place. “Barker sent me to go get you since the game of _Riteball_ is about to begin.

                “Oh, right. I must’ve dozed off. Tell him I’ll be there shortly.”

                Shanna nodded, “Alright, but don’t get mad at me if he’s angry at you for being late.” She turned to exit.

                “Watch out for the-

                _Bang._

“Ow!”

                “…bell”                

* * *

 

                The Reader watched as the harp girl, holding her now plenty-bruised head in one wing, close the door behind her as she left. He sighed and turned to go back into the common room, holding a hand against the wall to balance himself. The cloaked man grabbed his cane which he had left leaning against the wall, and knelt down to retrieve a certain green orb using his other hand. As soon as his hand came into contact with its glassy exterior, a familiar voice echoed in his mind.

                “You should see to installing a lock on your door, dear Reader.”

                “You heard that?”

                “I _am_ aware of things happening outside this prison of mine, Sam. At least, in the nearby proximity.”

                The Reader grunted as he used his cane to pull himself back into a standing position, and shifted to hold the orb under his arm.  “You know, you may be stuck in there but at least you didn’t get called creepy.”

He heard a chuckle resonate from Sandra’s ethereal voice, bringing a small smirk to his own lips. “It was a shame that girl interrupted us. We were just getting to the good part.”

“I should’ve realized there was a game today. I assure you there’ll be plenty of time for fun later.”

The mention of the sport immediately brought a frown to Sandra’s face. “That poor excuse of a game is an embarrassment to the Rites. I can’t believe you let yourself be a part of it.”

“Well I’m not actually participating, you know. I’m just the referee.”

“Regardless, I would prefer another hundred years trapped in this dreaded prison than to have to witness that _sport,_ “ The Reader could practically feel the air quotes radiating from her ghostly voice, “ever again.”

“Yikes,” Sam replied. “You really hate it that much?”

Sandra merely grunted in response.

The Reader sighed. “Alright, I’ll let you stay home for this one.” He placed the orb on the desk next to where all the copies of the Book of Rites that the Nightwings had gathered. “I’ll probably only be gone for an hour and a half at the most.”

Sandra didn’t respond, apparently still infuriated at the very existence of Riteball. Sam adjusted his cloak and made sure his boots were laced, before turning back to the orb.

“Alright, I’m off. I love you, Sandra.”

No response.

“I _said_ I looooove you, Sandra!”

“…I love you too, Sam.”

Satisfied, the Reader swung open the door of the Blackwagon and exited his home cane-in-hand.

* * *

Having been crippled from a young age, Sam had quite a large amount of experience when it came to watching from the sidelines, physical activities making up the majority of such pursuits he could not participate in. So it was on good authority that he decided that out of all sports he had seen in his life, Riteball was by far the most entertaining.

It was during a voyage across the wastes of the Downside when he had spotted Barker and his Dissidents from the skies doing what he had thought was reenacting the Rites, yet after landing the Blackwagon to come speak to them, was surprised to learn that they had decided to turn the sacred ceremony into a recreational sport. However, they had problems, such as the fact that since the Rites were over, there were no magical boundaries to create a fair and equal amount of space for each team, there was no Celestial Orb that would appear, sent down from the stars themselves, and there was certainly no Pyre to plunge into.

Sam was even more surprised when they had asked him to help out in redefining the rules so that they could actually make the game work.

So it was together that the Reader joined forces with the infamous Dissidents in what may have been possibly the most unlikely alliance ever to grace the Downside to turn the ancient, sacred ritual known as the Rites into a _sports game_. Ti’zo helped too, of course.

Although Sam would like to have said he did it purely because he was being nice, that wasn’t quite the truth. It had been months since the final Liberation Rite, months since Volfred had ascended and returned to the Commonwealth and enacted his revolution, transforming it into what was now known as the Sahrian Union. And although the Reader had Ti’zo and Sandra to keep him company, and although he often exchanged letters with his liberated comrades, he had begun to get a bit… bored.

Bertrude had opted to return to where he and the rest of the Nightwings first stumbled upon her, though she did promise to keep in touch if anything should happen, and provided the Reader with plenty of elixirs to fight off sickness and tips on how to effectively identity food that was edible compared to what would turn your stomach inside out, along with how to cook so that he could actually survive on his own.

Tariq had told Ti’zo to watch over the Blackwagon and even suggested they make further use of it. The remaining Nightwings made sure to make use of his advice and generosity, using it to circumvent the treacherous journey down from the Fall of Soliam to the base of Mount Alodiel they would’ve otherwise had to make on foot. They dropped Bertrude off at her outpost, returning her to the bog-crone community that dwelt on the edge of Flagging Hands before heading off.

They moved around for a while but didn’t encounter anyone else until their run-in with the Dissidents. So they helped setup a few new rules, made sure to measure how long the field would be, provided substitutes for Celestial Orb and Pyre, and soon enough Riteball was born!

                The game was fun enough that when other traveling exiles of the Downside came across the group, they had opted to stay for a bit, “just for the game”, they had said. Others who came decided to stay as well, and soon enough a small nomadic group had been born. And although some did leave, a larger number of exiles decided to stick around.

                Living in a community in the Downside had its pros and cons, comparing to just being on your own. Everyone had to carry their weight in one way or another, and they couldn’t stay in a single location for more than a few weeks in fear of depleting local resources. Yet their numbers were large enough that howlers didn’t dare to attack their encampment, and there was always someone to provide assistance if anyone came down with disease or was injured.

Though to the Reader, the best part was being able to have time to simply _think_. Participating in the Rites had been an exciting adventure and one he would treasure for the rest of his life, however long that may be in the inhospitable reaches of the Downside. But aside from the few moments of anticipative respite after a Liberation Rite, he had never truly had time to himself to ponder on all that had happened. Even after the stars had vanished, he was kept busy by having to continually make sure he had enough food and drinkable water. Luckily for him, Ti’zo was more than happy to put his fishing skills to use to ensure their continued survival.

                But now that it was someone else’s responsibility to get the food, and now that he didn’t have to worry about any howlers looking for a Reader-sized snack, Sam was finally able to put aside time to get his thoughts in order.

                He thought of the Hedwyn, Jodariel, and Rukey, who he wished the best of luck for.

                He thought of Fae, who, although had left the world of the Scribes she treasured so much and had reentered the one that so easily cast her aside, he was sure would fare well under Jodariel’s watchful eye.

                He thought of Sir Gilman, who he was sure would find the honor he desperately longed for in the Sahrian Union, although to the Reader, the brave wyrm had never lost it.

                He thought of Pamitha, who he hoped would forgive him for defeating her sister in the Essence’s Liberation Rite, but hoped most of all that she could learn to forgive herself in her liberation.

                He thought of Volfred and was thoroughly amused that the sap seemed so dumbfounded about how easily he was voted into office as the Union’s first Prime Minister. He was sure the nation would be a fine one with him in charge.

                Yet what troubled the Reader was not the thoughts of his friends, no. What had refused to leave his mind was those that he and the Nightwings had defeated.

                How he saw the hope in Ignarius’ eye extinguish just as his pyre did at the Fall of Soliam, and how in further Rites he saw only growing cynicism and self-loathing.

                How Almer’s rage was calmed by his cur foster father, who simply met the Reader’s eyes after their defeat with a respectful yet solemn acceptance.

                How, as his abilities as a reader grew stronger, he could virtually _feel_ the pure hatred boiling within Tamitha, growing only stronger after every defeat.

                How he had heard from members of the camp that Lendel, one he actually didn’t mind defeating, had descended into madness after the last liberation Rite.

                How-

                “OI! READER!”

                Sam was brought out of his thoughts by a loud bark. He blinked, focusing on the cur with the red mohawk that had approached him.

                “Ya took your sweet ol’ time gettin’ down here, didn’tcha?” Barker sneered, causing the chains attached to his collar to audibly jingle.

                “Yeah, sorry about that.” The Reader apologized. He must have gotten lost in thought as he traveled down the hill the Blackwagon rested on. “I hope I didn’t keep you waiting very long.”

                “Only ten whole bloody minutes! Ya ready to get this show on the road or what, mate?”

                Sam felt a small smile come to his face. Only Barker could be so enraged by a simple ten minute wait. “Sure, I’m ready.”

                “Then let’s get goin’!”

                The Reader followed Barker as the two made their way through the camp to the Riteball court. A few nodded and waved as they passed, though none looking too happy. Not surprising since the camp was currently situated in the barren badlands of Jomeur Valley. Members of the encampment had set up tents and tarps where they took refuge from the blistering sunlight. They did, however, respect Barker’s decision to stay here for the next few weeks, before moving somewhere else in the sand-blanketed landscape. The energetic cur was seen as something of a leader to the group, and although he would occasionally come to Sam for advice, specifically anything regarding Riteball or really any major decisions, he would always take credit himself for arriving at his “genius conclusions,” something the Reader was fine with. And although the Jomeur Valley wasn’t the most abundant location when it came to natural resources, the plentiful cacti and local howler population gave the camp enough sustenance to live comfortably for the time being.

                The heat of the area was something the Reader had to get used to. He had been through the valley before, but never lingered enough to truly realize how hot the area was. The temperature was less a welcome warmth and more like an intrusive wave that crept into every nook and cranny it could, only receding at night when a frigid chill took its place.  Fields of sand, dust, and dirt covered the ground. This particular area they had nested in, for the time being, was mostly flat apart from the few foothills that were scattered across the distance. Right now it seemed to be early afternoon, the unforgiving sun just beginning its descent.

                Sam took note of how Barker was already clad in his team jersey, a garment similar to the holy vestments of the Rites, but since those were magical in nature and could only be modified by adjusting to the proportions of its latest wearer, the Dissidents and other players had to settle with substitutes. The Reader had to give Barker credit. The outfits looked nearly the same, except for two key features. The first being the absence of any masks, and the second being the crudely drawn _ASHPAWZ_ team name on the back.

                Both teams were waiting by the court when they arrived, “Ashpawz” on one side, and Shanna’s “Saints” on the other, dressed in orange and violet respectively. They perked up as Reader approached, getting up from where they were resting on the sands.

                Sam was impressed. They had only just arrived in this stretch of the valley and yet they had already prepared the Riteball court. The Reader made his way over the small folding chair that had been erected just aside the court and sat down as Barker made his way over to his team.

                The boundaries of the court were marked by pieces of rope tied to sticks planted firmly into the earth, giving a playing space roughly about the size of the actual Rites, if it a bit larger. Straight down the middle was a line marked with chalk that had been purchased from Falcon Ron’s last visit, denoting each team’s side, and the small circle in which the Riteball itself would be placed. Although the Celestial Orb was truly magical and glowed with an arcane light, the Riteball was merely a sphere constructed of woven twigs and a few small ropes. Unlike the actual Rites, which often contained geographic obstacles such as rocks, malevolent plant life, and lava-filled pitfalls, the court was drawn specifically in a place where there were no obstructions, giving each team equal footing. In place of pyres were small circular-shaped nets, held up by wood like a mini trampoline. Whoever possessed the Riteball had to jump into the opposing team’s net with the sphere in hand to score a point.

                The game was divided into three “tribunals,” inspired by the triumvirates which had competed in the Rites. Each tribunal lasted three minutes, with a minute-and-a-half break in between each. However, unlike other sports where should a player drop the ball the timer would stop, in Riteball the timer _never_ stopped. Neither team has the ability to call a timeout to plan anything or adjust strategy. Riteball can only come to a pause if one team scores and has to return the ball to the center, at which immediately upon returning to their edge of the court the game resumes, or they suspect another team of foul, such as hurting another player or the ball going out of bounds.

                At first, the Reader was opposed to this, but Barker had insisted on it. It turns out that the cur was onto something, as once they were able to actually play their new sport, they quickly discovered it was far more hectic and fast-paced than the ones which were practiced in the Commonwealth, and even the Rites themselves, something Barker was immensely proud of. The lack of banishment specifically made for a very animated event: all players were active during the game at all times, except for when the Riteball was being placed back in the center, naturally.

                The Reader’s job was to sort out any fouls and, if necessary, administer penalties to the team who committed them (which were simple two-second head starts for the other team). His abilities to tap into the minds of others that he had gained from reading the Book of Rites assisted in this, not that he had told anyone.

                “Well, lad?” Barker barked from his side of the court. “We gon’ get play some Riteball or what?”

                Shanna crossed her wings, tapping her talons on the ground. “Yeah, I’m ready any time now.”

                “Alright, let me get the timer ready.” The reader takes out a small talisman from his pocket and holds it up for both teams of three to see. It was a stony, spherical-shaped thing, marked with arcane runes that inscribed power onto it.

                “Get in your positions!” Each team assumed the arrowhead formation around their net just as an exile would have around their pyre in the rites.

                “Get set!” The Reader spots Barker adopting a toothy grin, his back legs ready to take off at a moment’s notice. Shanna similarly crouches down, preparing to bounce in flight.

                “GO!” Sam squeezes the talisman, its magic causing a loud cracking sound to resonate across the arid playing field, and both teams dart to the center.

* * *

                “One minute left!” Sam leaned back in his seat, crossing his legs as he watched the third tribunal reach its end.

                The ferociousness of Barker’s Ashpawz had helped them to score, but the fact that his team of three curs had little counters to Shanna’s control of the air helped the Saints get up to an even point-count. The Reader had to admit that if Shanna was a member of a triumvirate, she would’ve made a fine conductor of the Rites. Her lack of tiring despite the beads of sweat running down her tanned features was a testament to her endurance, and her clever team composition of a harp, nomad, and savage made for a balanced defense and offense.

                The Reader watched as Barker, with the Riteball in his teeth, leapt over a Saint and began falling into the net-

                Only for Shanna to sweep down from the air, snatching the ball from his maw with an outstretched talon, who then began to fly over to the other side of the court.

                _Bit a ball hog, isn’t she?_ Sam mused as he watched her make her way across the court. He saw the nomad Saint trying to fend off the curs of the Ashpawz, but he was no match for their speed. Shanna barely managed to move her leg out of the way as one jumped at the ball, causing the cur to go flying by her in the air, the ball mere inches from his snout. The savage member of the Saints rushed forward to the other end of the court, waving her arms to her airborne comrade, but the harp seemed too busy trying to avert the three Ashpawz trying to steal the Riteball from her grasp, and if the slowed beating of her wings were any indication, she was beginning to tire out.

 

                The Reader rested his head on his hand. He couldn’t help but be reminded of the actual Rites during these games, and already felt his mind contemplating strategies on how to get out of the situation-

                _Pass the ball to your teammate by the goal, they’re trying to wear you out._

                The telepathic message surged out of Sam before he could even form the words.

The Reader blinked, confused. _Did I just-_ his thoughts were brought to an end when he saw Shanna staring straight at him, despite the canines snapping at her heels.

He quickly directed his eyesight away from Shanna and over to her the net. Sure enough, in a matter of seconds, the Riteball was soaring through the air. The moon-touched woman reached up to grab it before vaulting into the net, landing harmlessly just as the buzzing from the talisman indicated the end of the game.

                “Alright, that’s enough!” The Reader grabbed his cane from its resting position against the folding chair before standing up. He felt lucky that his hood kept his features hidden, as he’s sure the calm expression he was trying to adopt could easily be seen through. “The game is over. Victory belongs to the Saints!”

                Shanna and her teammates cheered, and so did some of the audience they had gained over the game’s course. Barker, however, was not as pleased.

                “Oi! Wot happened there, mates? I thought we ‘ad it!”

                “It’s ‘cause we can’t fly, boss!” One of his curs bowed his head in shame, his tail falling between his legs and his ears drooping. “Can’t do much when she’s up there and we’re down here.”

                Barker let out a low growl that eventually turned into a sigh. “A’ight, let’s just make sure it don’t happen again, lads. We got a reputation to uphold.”

                “Sure thing, boss!” the two curs seemed quite grateful for their leader’s benevolence, their energy returning as they panted for air.

                The leader of the Ashpawz turned to the harp who had defeated them. “You did pretty well, girly.”

                Shanna turned from her teammates, a look of surprise cast upon her olive skin. “Uh, yeah. You guys did pretty well, too.”

                If Barker had any appreciation for the girl’s good sportsmanship, he didn’t show it. “A’ight, ladies and gents, shows over, pack it up! Tomorrow it’ll be Cosmos and the Emeralds!”

                The Reader smirked as he watched the crowd slowly disperse, returning to their tents erected upon the sands. When he first met the cur, he never took Barker for the honorable or fair type, yet his easy forgiveness of Rukey and the clear respect he held both those under him and those who bested him pleasantly surprised the Sam. It was no coincidence that out of all the encampments in the Downside (as few as there were), he found himself staying at this one.

                “Ahem.” A voice in front of Sam coughed.

                The Reader looked up, returning from his thoughts to see the fatigued yet satisfied face of Shanna, the white mop of curls atop her head splayed across her face, soaked with sweat.

                “Sorry, I was thinking about something. What is it?”

                “Do you always do that? Just trail in and out of deep thought when people are trying to talk to you?”

                _Apparently, more times than I would like._ “Only when I have something worth thinking about. Did you want to ask me something?”

                “Oh, right,” the harp’s inquisitive tone suddenly turned to an apologetic one as her eyes met the floor. “I’m sorry about breaking into your wagon and looking at your stuff.”

                “Well you didn’t _technically_ break in since the door was unlocked, but I appreciate your apology.”

                Shanna’s amber eyes widened in surprise at the Reader’s words. “Oh, thank you.” She rubbed the back of her neck with a wing. “I guess I’m off to go sit around until the next game.” The harp turned to leave but stopped in her tracks. Her head looked back in Sam’s direction. “Did you happen to say anything? During the game, I mean.”

                The Reader feigned a look of surprise. “No, I didn’t say a word. Why?”

                “It’s… nothing. I’ll see you around.”

                The Reader didn’t know why or how his mind went off like that. _I probably just lost focus, that’s all_ he concluded.

                The harp departed and made her way back over to her tent to seek protection from the desert heat. Sam didn’t blame her, the sun’s rays already was forcing sweat to seep out from his pores, despite his cloak’s protection. The Reader packed up the folding chair, holding it under his arm as he made his way over to Barker’s own tent, where extra supplies were kept for the games. Ironically, although he had been clad in the cloak as punishment, marking him as one who “spat in the wise teachings of our merciful Commonwealth” by pursuing the act of reading, it provided adequate shielding from the elements.

Sam ducked between the tent flaps and made his way to the corner where he dumped the chair where all the other folding chairs, riteballs, pieces of rope, and all other miscellaneous supplies lay. He turned to leave, but his exit was suddenly blocked a certain mohawked cur.

                “Grr, we shoulda’ ‘ad ‘em!” Barker groaned as he walked past the Reader, before turning to look at him once more. “You saw it, yeah? They were on the ropes!”

                “I did, I thought it was going to have to go into overtime for a second there.” The Reader said. “Have you considered switching one of your teammates with someone more apt to counter her abilities?

                “Wot you tryin’ to say, mate?”

                “Maybe if you adjusted your team composition, you may have fared better.”

                Barker looked up at Sam for a moment, his face unreadable, before suddenly letting out a bellowing, guttural laugh. “You tryin’ to git me to replace one of my boys?” He laughed even harder, his voice protruding all throughout and around the tent. “Listen ‘ere, mate. It’s me and ‘dem, ‘dem and me ‘til the end. I don’t care if Old Murr himself rose from the grave to give our team a go, we’re a pack. Ain’t no seperatin’ ‘til the day we die.”

                The Reader nodded, slightly grinning at the cur’s commitment as the laughter died down. “I’ll keep that in mind.” He lifted the tent flaps to step out but stopped. Those same thoughts from earlier began to return to him now that the excitement had ended, circulating in his thoughts like a storm that refused to end. “Say, Barker…” Sam found himself unable to meet the cur’s eyes and stared aimlessly into the distant sands. “What would’ve you have done if you had won?”

                “Hmm?” The black cur scratched his ear. “Guess I woulda’ celebrated ‘widda boys and cracked open a bottle of that sweet whiskey we got from Ron last time he came through.” He snorted. “Not that we’re plannin’ on not drinkin’ tonight, anyway.”

                “No, I mean the Rites. What would you have done if you were freed?”

                A silence filled the tent. A few delicate seconds passed before Sam heard the coarse sound of Barker snorting. “Didn’t ya just hear what I said? We’re a pack, mate. If there ain’t no them, there ain’t no me. You got a slug up yer ear or sumthin’?”

                “I must be tired. Anyway, you’re right. I’ll see you at supper.”

                The Reader exited just in time for a certain flying imp to descend down upon him from the desert sky, landing firmly on his head.

                “Scraa-kiriri-hi!”

                “Glad to see you’re back, Ti’zo!” Sam returned his friend’s greeting, happy that he had returned from his short voyage. “Find any fish?”

                “Krri-hoo….” The Reader could feel the red imp’s head slumping down in defeat from atop his own.

                “Ah, well I’m sure you’ll find one in one of the lakes around here, eventually.”

                “Scra-kirri?” Ti’zo asked, the absence of fish in his stomach a clear motive for the question. If he were an imp, he would be curious as to why he’d want to live in a fish-forsaken place too, Sam figured.

                The Reader scratched the back of his head. “While there are few sources of water around here, almost all of them are far less contaminated than other sources in the Downside, so we don’t have to boil them as long. Plus, the subterranean creatures that pop out of the sand are high in number, so we only have to move every couple of weeks.”

                “Krri-kir-hoo..” the imp’s fluttered downward from his position on atop his friend’s cranium, his usually joyful face drooping with sadness at a lack of aquatic sustenance.

                “Tell you what, after this tournament’s down we’ll take a small trip up north and stock up on as much fish as you can eat,” Sam promised, smiling at the prospect. “Though, we’ll have to hide them from the others. But that won’t be a problem, will it?”

                “Scraa-ki!” Ti’zo saluted with a small blue wing, his wide, trademark grin returning to his face. “Ki-hoo!” The imp suddenly perked up, his face changing from joyful to looking like he had forgotten something.

                “Hm? What is it, Ti’zo?”

                “Hree-kiriri-kir-hoo!” Ti’zo stated, indicating he had run into someone they both knew from the Rites.

                “Really? Who?” The Reader questioned.

                “Scraaaa-kii!” The imp flew in front of Sam, making his way over to the hill where the Blackwagon lay perched.

                _See for myself, then? Hmm._ The Reader followed his tiny airborne companion. Besides Barker, he hadn’t run into any other members of the other triumvirates. It was probably for the better, he reasoned. He had denied them their freedom, they should hate him. Sam doubted the rest of them were like Barker, who was only in for the fun of it. They all had lives: people they loved, ambitions they strove for, dreams they wanted to fulfill.

                And the Reader had spat in those dreams, making them watch hopelessly as one of their enemies gained the freedom they so dearly desired.

                “Scraa-hoo?”

                “Right, coming.”

* * *

                “Hold on, I’m getting there.”

                Sam made his way to the red door of the wagon and promptly swung it open, the wood letting out a large creek as he and his imp companion made their way inside. “Alright, so who’s our special guest-“

                The Reader was rather shocked to see Sandra projecting herself out from the Beyonder Orb, her closed eyes twitching in anger. He was even more shocked to see a very frightened Almer cowering in front of her. The boy’s fearful eyes immediately turned to him.

                “Almer, is that you?”

                “Get this… wraith away from me!” The boy cried, backed up against the corner of the wagon.

                “Sandra, play nice.”

                Sandra grunted, but relented and floated away from him. “If this foolish boy did not wish to summon me, then he should have stayed his hand from my vessel.”

                Sam took this moment to get a good look at the son of Dalbert Oldheart. His fair skin was contrasted by his wild, dark hair which he had tied back loosely, causing multiple strands to hang off the sides of his face. He still bore the bone-like earrings, paw pendant, and blue-striped markings at the tip of his nose, but no longer wore the raiment of the Fate, opting instead for a meager brown cloak and loose blue apparel, obviously meant for travel. His large, navy blue eyes looked to the Reader’s own for a moment, before turning to Ti’zo.

                “Creature!”

                “Kraa-he?”

                “You said you’d be back in five minutes. You left me here with… _her_ for twenty!”

                “Hraaa-he.” Ti’zo apologized, remarking that he was hungry.

                Almer groaned in exasperation, sitting down on a nearby stool and holding his head in his hands. The Reader didn’t need to read his mind to know the curses and swears he was likely holding back.

                “What brings you to our blackwagon, Almer?”

                The brunette perked up at that, his eyes meeting the Reader’s. “I wanted to see you.”

                “Me?” Sam pointed a finger at himself.

                “Yes, you.” Almer’s voice carried the same air of irritation as it did when they had met during the Rites. “You know a lot about the Scribes, right?”

                Sandra scoffed at the mention of those who had imprisoned her but otherwise remained silent, sitting on the table her orb was situated on and crossing her arms.

                “Er, yes, it comes with reading the Book.” Sam replied, still confused as to how and why the boy was in the Blackwagon. “Before you go any further, how did you even know I was here?”

                “I went to Hollowroot, a man there said that you and Barker’s gang were camped out here in Jomeur Valley.”

                _Must have been one who just passed through,_ the Reader concluded. “Okay, so what is it that you want?”

                “I…” Almer trailed off, his eyes meeting the floor.  “Father… he wanted me to go on a pilgrimage. To the places where the Scribes had left their mark.”

                “Scraaa-he?” Ti’zo fluttered his wings, landing on the table near him.

                Almer seemed to pick up on the imp’s question without necessarily understanding him. “He…” The boy’s voice sounded strained, and Sam could see his hands clenching as he looked further down at the floor. “My father passed… about a month ago.”

                Sam’s eyes went wide. “Oh…” The polite cur that was his father… dead? He knew that Almer’s father was old, but he wouldn’t have considered him infirm or sickly. _I suppose that those who don’t transform into demons don’t fare as well in the Downside._ “I’m... I’m sorry.”

                Ti’zo too had looked both surprised and saddened at the news and gave his own condolences. Sandra didn’t say anything, but her face had lost its irritated expression, transforming into a more neutral one.

                A silence filled the wagon. It was only after a few moments had passed that Almer decided to speak up. “He said that he could tell you knew a lot about the Scribes. It was the way you held the book, or the way you helped conduct the Rites, or something. Whatever it was, he wanted me to ask you to accompany me.”

                “Accompany you?” The Reader asked, “Throughout the entire Downside?”

                “You don’t have to come with me the whole way.” The boy looked up again, his eyes a bit red. The two navy orbs looked desperate and his forehead was creased in fear of refusal. “Just to the Spring, at least. It’s been years since I’ve been there so I’m not so sure how to find the way, and plus…” Almer looked off to the side, a blush of embarrassment coming across his face. “I may have _slightly_ damaged my blackwagon.

                “Slightly?”

                “Well, it can’t really fly anymore, but that’s beside the point!”

                “Hmm…” Sam slid out a chair from the table and sat down next to the boy. “You realize that I’ve got responsibilities here, right? I can’t exactly run off.”

                “It shouldn’t be too far from here, assuming we take your wagon.”

                “Hraaa-kerriki!” Ti’zo concurred, estimating the voyage being less than an hour.

                The Reader rubbed his chin, leaning back in his chair. He and Ti’zo were on cooking duty tonight, and he didn’t want to get reprimanded by Barker if he got caught out in a sandstorm and shirked his obligation. “I don’t know…”

                Almer peered up at him, utilizing a skill that Sam had thought native purely to curs. His eyes turned big and his mouth began to quiver.

                ” _Pleaaaaasse?”_

The Reader sighed. “Fine…”

                Almer hopped off his chair. “I’ll go grab my things!” He quickly made his way out the door, leaving the cripple, the imp, and the ghost in the wagon alone.

                “Scraa-hi!” Ti’zo chirped, his smile wide and his wings fluttering happily at the outcome.

                Sandra scoffed. “You’re too soft.”

* * *

                It turns out that when Almer said “things,” he had meant literally everything in his wagon. From the countless canine memorabilia, to the myriad of bone-charms, and even to a life-size bust of Jomeur Many-Mane himself. Even the drive-imps from the Fate’s blackwagon had decided to come over and nest in the attic where the Nightwings’ own drive-imps lay. Sam was reluctant about all the new items being put into his wagon, but the boy swore that he merely didn’t want any of his things to get robbed or stolen while they were away. The Reader had never had anything stolen from his blackwagon, but then again he had a certain phantom to ward off any intruders, so he conceded on the condition that after they were back, he wouldn’t be the one to unload it all. Luckily for the Reader, Almer’s wagon was parked nearby, on the same hill, in fact, allowing the transfer to take less than ten minutes. A quick glance at the torn wings and fractured woodwork would cause any to deduce that it crashed, but the boy swore that he had only just “bruised” it and that it was fully capable of flight, only needing a few “minor repairs.”

                Regardless, after Almer was situated, the Blackwagon took flight for the Spring of Jomeur. Ti’zo had flown up to the where the drive-imps were in an effort to make use out of the new arrivals, leaving Sam and Almer in the main room of the wagon.

                “Er, Reader?”

                “You can just call me Sam.”

                “What’s with the ghost lady?”

                Sandra had receded into her orb, which Sam had placed in the folds of his clothing. “Well-“

                “I am not a ghost, _boy._ ”

                As if on cue, the blind assassin manifested in the room once again, a thin, wispy stream of green energy linking her ghostly form to the orb. She glared at the boy as much as someone who was blind could glare.

                Almer immediately shot up, but to his credit had adopted a far less terror-stricken expression than when he spoke to her earlier. “Just what are you, exactly?”

                “I am Sandra, as our lovely Reader has already informed you. Sandra the Unseeing. The Scribes you hold so dear imprisoned me in this orb many centuries ago.

                “What did you do?”

                “I was good at my job and loyal to my employer, and that’s all it took for them, I suppose.”

                Sam decided to keep quiet and instead focused on piloting the Blackwagon, his hands deftly switching between each of the five handles used for flight and his eyesight focused on the windows to the outside.

                If Almer had curiosity toward her vague response, he was wise enough not to act upon it. “And you can just… appear like that?”

                “If I so desire. Primarily I exist within the orb: a small space in which I can draw the spirits of others in.”

                “How does that work?” Almer seemed to have lost his usual irritated tone, his intrigue sparked by the phantom before him.

                “Simply by touching the orb.”

                “So you’ve been in there alone for centuries?”

                Sandra’s eyebrow twitched. “Others exist within as well, all of us unwilling members of the Beyonder triumvirate.”

                “What’s that like?”

                “Has anyone ever told you that you speak too much?”

                The boy snorted. “Well excuse me for being curious about some specter who just appears in front of people simply to insult them!”

                “I only insult those who deserve it.”

                “She insults everyone, don’t take it personally.” The Reader chimed in.

                “I don’t see her insulting you!”

                “That’s because he knows how to keep his mouth shut, unlike you, worm.”

                “ _Worm_?!” Almer got up from where he was sitting at the table, his face turning red with anger.

                _Oh boy._

Before any of the two could get another word out, a certain imp spoke from the attic. “Kraaa-hi!”

                “Alright, I’ll start descending now.”

                Sam pulled on one of the handholds in the back, and slowly the Blackwagon began making its way to the ground. Almer and Sandra both had turned quiet, each avoiding each other’s eyes as the vehicle descended. After a few minutes, the wagon rocked as its wheels made contact with the ground, causing all the ornaments in the room, new and old, to shake as the wooden axes spun across the sand. Slowly the Reader decelerated the wagon, and within a minute it came to a stop.

                Ti’zo fluttered downwards from the attic. When Volfred and Tariq had restored the Blackwagon’s flight system, they informed the Reader that the drive-imps actually had a small window in their attic that allowed them to see out in front of the vehicle, granting them the ability to see where they were going. Ti’zo affirmed this, but Sam was never able to actually see this himself, one reason being that the drive-imps highly valued their privacy, the second being that the attic was far too small for him to fit in. He had always had a number of questions regarding how a group of such small creatures could allow the Blackwagon to not only move across land but sea and sky as well. Volfred simply told him to trust in the designs of Lu Sclorian.

                “So? We’re here, then?” Almer asked, having approached the Reader.

                “So it seems.” Sam grabbed his cane which he had left resting against the wall and headed to the door. Sandra turned her head toward Almer and gave one last sneer before her phantasmal form vanished in a swirl of green light. Ti’zo, as if oblivious to the conflict between them, happily followed Sam out to open air once the Reader opened the door.

                Almer shuddered and clenched the paw pendant that hung from his neck, closing his eyes and breathing deeply.

                “You coming?” Sam asked. He didn’t need to read the boy’s mind to know he was thinking of his father.

                “Yes. Let us depart.”              

* * *

 

                The first thing that greeted the Reader when he exited the wagon was the huge, decayed carapace of the hive-titan Bianlanthius. Its stinger, although upright, fell limply across the large ball of beetle dung that Jomeur had dumped on the monster’s head some eight centuries ago. Luckily, it had dried and hardened over the centuries and left no horrid smell despite its organic contents. Under it lied the crushed head of the beast, its shattered chitin expression one of terror. Its huge claw, a mixture of white and blue shades like the rest of its body, were clenched shut, likely in a reflex of pain in the titan’s final moments. No matter how many times Sam visited the Celestial Landmarks of the Scribes, he would never stop being impressed with the monumental feats they performed.

                Contrasting the massive remains was the large shining pond before it. The bright water glittered in the desert sun’s light as if it were a mirror. The waters were bright and translucent, like those surrounding the tropical islands to the east of the Sahrian Union’s lands, and the spring was so still that as he approached the Reader could see his reflection almost perfectly, his hooded form staring back at him from the sacred waters.

                He heard Almer approaching from behind him. “So this is the Spring?”

                Sam turned, his eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “Yes, I thought you had been here before. In fact, this was where our triumvirates first met.”

                “Well yes, but I have never actually seen the Spring itself. Father and I were camped out just nearby, and after our Rite, he suggested that we move to a more open area so that when the stars next shine for us we could be ready to go wherever they might lead us.”

                “Your father could read the stars?”

                Almer nodded, staring into the waters beside the Reader. “He could not read the Book like you do, at least not enough to make use of its contents. But he had been a proud follower of the Eighth Word before we were exiled and had always sought to see the landmarks himself. Once we were cast down, he insisted we stay in more “safer” locations, such as Hollowroot, where we lived for a while.”

                “Wait, you two were in Hollowroot?” Sam’s eyes widened in surprise.

                “Yes, what of it?”

                “The Nightwings and I went through there on our way to our first Rite. We must’ve passed right by you.”

                Almer blinked in curiosity. “Really?”

                “Yes, but if we went by you how was it that you made it here first?”

                “We just went once Father saw the stars tell us to go. I remember it, it was in the middle of supper, he almost knocked over the plate he was eating from.”

                Sam rubbed his chin. “Strange, it was only after our Rite with the Accusers that the stars shone for us, and that was late in the night.”

                Almer shrugged. “Perhaps the stars shine for different triumvirates at different times.”

                “Scraaaaa-ki!” Darting in between the two, Ti’zo, having returned from stretching his wings, immediately plummeted into the pond with a loud splash, causing water to go flying into the faces and onto the heads of the two.

                “Urrgh!” Almer grunted, shaking his hair wildly to get the liquid off. This caused only more water to get splashed upon the Reader, but his cloak protected him from the brunt of it. “Damn creature, watch where you fly!”

                If Ti’zo could hear him from under the Spring, he did not respond, opting instead to zoom through the water like a swordfish. Sam was quite surprised when he had learned from Ti’zo that imps were quite adept at swimming. It was how they caught their food from their place of origin in the Deathless Tempest, but just from looking at them the Reader never guessed them to be aquatic hunters.

                The imp surfaced after a moment, but both Sam and Almer had already prepared for the next splash and shielded their faces with their arms.

                “Scraaa-hoo…” Ti’zo small form sighed.

                “No fish here either?”

                The imp nodded silently.

                Sam knelt down and dipped his hand in the water. To his surprise, it was actually quite cool, compared to the warm bodies of water that could scarcely be found across the rest of Jomeur Valley.

                “Hmm.”

                “What is it?” Almer asked from behind him.

                “I’m just wondering if the water is kept cold because it used to be titan blood, or if it’s even truly water.”  
                Almer knelt down and tested the water with his hand as well. “Father told me about the story. His blood turned into the Spring, right?”

                Sam nodded. “Indeed, thankfully it’s not sullied by the waste.”

                “What waste?”

                The Reader turned to Almer. “The waste that he dumped on Bialanthius, what else?”

                “You mean the rock?” The boy pointed to the large lump that sat upon the dead beast’s head.

                “That’s no rock, didn’t your father tell you the story?”

                Almer’s eyebrow furrowed in confusion. “Yes, he did. The Alpha-Chief lured the hive-titan here and crushed the thing. Are you saying there’s something else?”

                Sam found himself chuckling. It would appear that perhaps the Eighth Word, either on purpose or accidentally, had missed a little detail in the story. “Yes. That’s not a rock, Almer.”

                “Then what is it?”

                “16,000 tons of beetle excrement.

                The boy’s eyes immediately widened, but then squinted as he frowned skeptically. “That’s insane. Is this your idea of a joke?”

                “It’s no joke. It’s written in the Book of Rites itself, chapter five, page 81, in the words of Underking Ores himself. “

                “How would someone even get that much…. and from beetles, of all things?”

                “Ores claims that Jomeur refused to explain.”

                Almer’s eyes scanned the Reader’s own for a moment, searching for any sign of deception, but found none. He grunted, turning his attention back to the water. “Unbelievable.”

                “The Scribes act in mysterious ways, Almer.”

                A silence fell across the three. Ti’zo silently lamented his misfortune, lying on his back and lazily using his wings to guide him across the water. Almer pondered on the strange story, and Sam simply took in the beauty of the Spring. Eventually, the Reader spoke up.

                “Aren’t you mad at me?” he asked. His voice was quiet and unsure.

                Almer didn’t need to ask to know what he was talking about. He let out a low sigh. “I still am, to be honest. But Father… he told me not to be. He said that the Scribes will favor whom they shall, and that if we were to lose a Rite then we were to lose, and not dwell on things outside of our control.”

                The Reader stayed silent, simply staring into the blue pond.

                “I’m don’t think I can forgive as easily as he could.” The boy continued. “I’m not sure about the Scribes being grand, mystical deities either. But what I am sure of is that he wouldn’t want me to end up angry and cynical.”

                “For what it’s worth… I’m sorry.” Sam spoke softly. ”I… we both had people we wanted to be free of the Downside. That doesn’t make it okay, but… I just want you to know that we never held anything against you or your father. We actually enjoyed your company, compared to that of the other triumvirates.

                “Do you keep in contact with them?”

                “The Nightwings? Yes, I do try to send messages to them when I can. Why?”

                Now it was Almer’s voice who turned unsure. “Do you know what happened to the girl you traveled with? The one with the frizzy hair?”

                “You mean Fae? As far as I’m aware, she’s living with Jodariel, another member of the Nightwings. Why?”

                In the corner of his eye, the Reader could see a small redness spreading across the boy’s cheeks. “It’s nothing.” He said quickly. “I was merely, curious, that’s all.”

                Silence fell across them again, before Almer eventually turned to the Reader, who met his navy blue eyes with his own.    

                “For the record, Reader, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to forgive you for denying my father freedom.”

                Sam nodded solemnly, “I understand-“

                “But,” Almer interrupted, “I don’t blame you freeing members of your own triumvirate. We were not related by blood, but Father was always family to me, and I would do anything for him. I didn’t see much of your triumvirate aside from the Rites, but from what I did see, you seemed quite close as well. So while I can’t forgive you personally, I also can’t blame you for putting family first.

                Sam’s eyes widened in surprise. Surprise of forgiveness he did thought he did not earn nor deserve in any way. He simply nodded once more in silent acceptance.

                A third moment of silence passed before the Reader used his cane to hoist himself up. “Well,” he stretched his free arm upwards, and then switched his cane to his other hand to do so with his other arm. “Let’s get done what we came here for.”

                Sam reached around his neck and unclipped the small clasp for his cloak, causing it to fall gently onto the sand behind him. He reached his hand back to help smoothen his chestnut hair, which he kept swept-back under his hood. His skin was fair, if it bit pale, and soft green eyes complimented his narrow face. A thin nose sat above his set of small lips, which pursed as he focused on the water before him.

                “Uh, what are you doing?”

                “The Book says that those who walk within the Spring will experience “the resplendent glory of the land.” Considering we came all this way, why not see for ourselves?” The Reader used his cane to balance himself as he made his way down the gentle incline into the water.

                The water was cool, but not cold, and felt like that of a gentle spring rain against his skin. His clothes naturally got wet as well, but he knew the heat of the scorching desert sun would quickly dry them once he got out. The incline into the Spring was long and gradual, allowing him to walk a good distance before the water rose to his hips. He turned to Almer. “Are you coming in?”

                Almer watched the Reader from the edge of the large pond, his face unreadable, before he stood up and too unclasped his cloak, before rolling up his pant legs and making his way in. Soon enough both of them were standing beside each other, their imp companion still floating around off to the side.

                “Well, it’s certainly refreshing.” Sam stated, relishing in the relinquishment from the unrelenting heat of the arid valley.

                “It is quite nice.” Almer agreed.

                The two stood there for a moment longer before the Reader spoke up. “Well, I’m having no feelings of “resplendent glory,” or divine enlightenment, what about you?”

                “The water’s nice, but I’m not feeling anything too “resplendent,” either, Reader.”

                “You can still just call me Sam, by the way.”

                “Oh, right.” Almer rubbed the back of his neck. “How come everyone in your triumvirate called you “Reader” anyways?”

                “I’m not sure. It just kind of caught on, I suppose.” Sam answered. “What about you, Ti’zo? Any feelings of resplendent glory?”

                “Hreee-hoo.”

                “Guess not.” The Reader sighed. “Well, it seems we’re just about done here, so let’s head back and-“

                Before he could finish that thought, Sam’s head exploded in a sharp pain. It felt like someone had slammed it against a wall and then ran a knife into it for good measure. Stars danced in his vision as he fell to his knees, his cane dropping into the water as his hands grasped his head. He could make out the muffled voice of someone calling his name, but everything seemed to blurry to make out.

                Just then, his vision returned to him. But he was not in the Spring. He saw rough sand and dirt around him, along with a myriad of sand dunes, a sharp contrast to the relatively flat badlands of Jomeur Valley. His body felt heavy and wet, as if he had been dunked into a cold lake and roughly pulled out. His breath fell short, and he could feel someone cold and hard pressed against his face. He tried moving but found his arms were bound, only being met with the harsh jingle of a set of chains. He looked up and saw a river running harshly. It cascaded in a winding, treacherous course.  It was with a panicked realization that Sam realized that this was the Sclorian River, the same cold, harsh watercourse that he had been thrown in to transport him to the Downside.

                _What… what in the world just happened?_

                The Reader’s thoughts were interrupted by his body being forcibly dragged off to the side. He felt a hand around the chains that bound his arms, belonging to someone strong enough to whisk his entire body around with one arm easily. Suddenly he felt the hand bring him up into a kneeling position, and his eyes were met with a concealed visage. The collar of whoever the person grabbing him was wearing was pulled up so high it surrounded the back of the man’s head like some sort of fan. A thick, silvery fur scurf covered the figure’s nose and mouth, and atop his head was a black hat with a wide circular brim, stretching outwards causing shade to fall across the stranger’s features.

                But what caught his attention most of all were the large glass goggles the man wore. They were a deep red and wide like saucers, and stared back at him, hiding the eyes of the wearer completely. The Reader was unnerved by this, but was even more frightened by the foreign reflection he saw staring back at him in the glass. Although distorted, he could make out a white, porcelain mask. A small black line fell across where there were two holes for the eyes, and he could see the line marked with three small vertical ones, one on each side and a larger one in the center. Just below that was two small holes meant for his nose so that he could breathe. A grey powdered wig lied atop of his head and fell down to his shoulders, sodden by the river water.

                Across the forehead of the reflection, however, was a tall, glassy star-shaped headpiece, the center of which was a painted pentagon that was evenly separated into eight different parts, each marked by a different color.

                _The Astral Crown._ The Reader recognized it within seconds. _Which means…_

                Before Sam could finish that thought a hand clad in leather drove back and then launched forward, the stranger’s fist brutally slamming into his face, causing a large a wave of pain to roll across-

                “Sam!”

                The Reader gasped, blinking reflexively, only to find himself kneeling in a pool of water. He could feel someone’s arms under his own preventing him from falling in and could make out greenish phantasmal energy, which surrounded a very beautiful and very familiar face.

                “Sandra?”

                “Sam? Can you hear me?

                “Yes, I can hear you. What just-“the Reader looked around. Sandra was in front of him. Her face had loss its typical stoic or smug expression. Instead, she looked worried, her forehead creased and her lips pursed nervously. Behind him, he noticed Almer, who was been holding him up. He too looked down at Sam with a worried expression, as did the imp perched on his shoulders, his large eyes wide and frightened.

                “Boy, help him up.”

                He felt arms hoist him upwards and noticed his own arm guided to being draped across the boy’s shoulder. Almer knelt down for a moment, grasping at the cane that floated to the Spring’s floor and put it into Sam’s free hand. “Here, just lean on me.”

                Together they made their way back to the sands. Ti’zo fluttered around them, trying to make sure nothing got in their way, and he noticed Sandra, who although she couldn’t see, was still scanning the Reader for any sign of weakness or injury he may have possessed. He let himself be guided back into the Blackwagon, where Almer set him down in the chair.

                “I’ll go get your cloak.” The boy quickly exited back out the door they came.

                Sam took steps to control his breathing, closing his eyes and trying to slow down his racing heart. His bad leg felt strained from the pressure he had put on it, and a dull pain lingered in the back of his head, like a receding headache.

                “Imp, go fetch a towel.”

                “Scraaa-hi!” He heard Ti’zo’s wings beat quickly and retreat into the common room.

                “Sam, are you okay? Are you hurt at all?”

                “No, no, I-I’m fine. Just a bit out of breath.” He opened his eyes, the sight of his loved one offering comfort to his panicked form. “I’m guessing you didn’t see any of that?”

                “See what?” Sandra questioned, still trying to detect if there was anything wrong. “What did you see?”

                “So you didn’t.” Sam deduced.

                “I didn’t see anything.” She answered. “What do you mean by that? What do you mean you _saw_ something?”

                “Scraaa-kirri!” The flapping of wings alerted the two to Ti’zos return. He clenched a small hand towel in his feet, which he offered to the Reader.

                “Thanks, Ti’zo.” Sam grabbed the towel and wiped his face with it, cleaning off a layer of sweat he didn’t even know he had.

                The door creaked as Almer brushed by it, his own cloak draped across his shoulders and the Reader’s in his hands. “Here.” He gave it to Sam, who graciously accepted it.

                The three wordlessly gave the Reader a moment to catch his breath and collect himself. Ti’zo stood on the table silently while Sandra stayed quiet, attempting to listen in an attempt to discover any other aberrations in the Reader’s health. The only sound, apart from Sam’s breathing, came from Almer as he paced across the room, the wooden boards creaking under his feet.

                Once Sam had ensured he calmed himself and that he was alright, he spoke.

                “I saw something. A vision, I think.”

                Almer’s eyes immediately met his own. “From the Scribes?”

                “I’m not sure… How long was I out?

                “Only about a minute or so.” The boy answered.  “So, what did you see?”

                “I was by a river: the Sclorian River…” the Reader trailed off, then quickly looked to his imp companion. “Hey, Ti’zo.”

                “Kraa-hi?”

                “The Sandfolds aren’t too far from here, right?”

                “Scraaaaa-kiri-hoo!” Ti’zo affirmed.

                Sam’s attention then turned to Almer. “Almer, do you have anything else you need to do today?”

“No-at least, I don’t think so. Why?” The boy cocked his head in confusion.

                “Then it’s settled. We’re heading to the Sclorian River.” The Reader stood up, grasping his cane and making his way over to the flight controls.

                “Hold, Reader.” Sandra floated in front of Sam, blocking his path. “Why is it you wish to travel there? Does this have to do with this vision that you’ve seen?”

                “Yes, but just trust me on this.”

                “Sam,” Sandra’s voice had just a hint of concern to it, something the Reader knew only he could detect. “You’ve been out in the desert sun with those _peons_ for weeks on end, you probably just need some time to rest. Some time away from the mouth-breathing hordes.”

                Sam shook his head, his voice determined. “No, this wasn’t just some fever dream or hallucination. I know it was real, I felt it, and I’ll tell you all about it on the way. Trust me on this, Sandra. Please?”

                The blind assassin was silent, her expression unreadable. Eventually, she gave out a small sigh. “Only you, Sam.” She whispered before returning to her orb in a flash of green light.

                Sam walked over to the flight controls. “Ti’zo, get the drive-imps ready, please.”

                “Hree-hi!” Ti’zo flew upwards to the attic, vanishing into the small room.

                “Sorry about this, Almer.” The Reader grabbed one of the rope’s handholds and pulled it down, causing the wagon to open up its wings. “You don’t mind, do you?”

                Almer just grunted, before sitting down at the chair he was in before, crossing his arms. “Just make it quick. I don’t want someone to run off with the Fate’s wagon.”

                Sam wasn’t sure how someone could steal a broken wagon, but nodded nonetheless, bracing himself as he felt the Blackwagon leave the earth and make its way back into the sky.             

* * *

 

                The Convict grasped the riverbank with an outstretched hand, pulled himself upwards and onto the sands in front of him. His breaths came out in heavy heaves, and his entire body was soaked wet from the cold, unforgiving waters of the Sclorian River. He had been thoroughly informed of and prepared to travel down the treacherous thing, but no warnings could have prepared him for just how hostile the river truly was, its rushing torrents and freezing temperature unmatched to anything he had ever seen topside.

                Then again, he had traveled down it once before, but that was years ago, and he didn’t have to worry about extra cargo back then.

                As he knelt keeled over on the riverbank’s upward incline he felt the chain he had wrapped around his hand pulled further downriver. The Convict stood upright, turned around and directed his cold gaze to the water. The chain he was holding was connected to another man who was floating limply down the Sclorian River. His long, heavy robes, once white, pristine, and as bright as the stars themselves, were now soaked and sullied beyond recognition. His powdered wig fell across his porcelain mask like a wet curtain, and his gloves, once a fine black silk, now dangled loosely from his wrists.

                The Convict grunted, annoyed at his captive’s lack of consciousness and yanked the metal link harshly. It was tied around the robed man’s body, binding his arms from movement but left his legs free. The man’s body was spurred by the movement but didn’t show any further signs of stirring.

                The man grunted under his thick scarf, once belonging to a silver fox, before grasping the chain with both his hands and beginning to reign his captive in. It took some effort, but eventually, the holy man was brought before him, joined on the riverbank. The Convict delivered a slight nudge to the figure’s shoulder with his foot.

                Nothing.

                The Convict used his foot to push his shoulder up, causing the unconscious man to turn over onto his back. He then raised his knee, before delivering a heavy stomp straight into the center of his captive’s diaphragm with his steel-toed boot.

                The figure lurched, gasping in agony as his ribs screamed, bruised and screaming in pain from the force of his captor’s attack. He laid on the riverbank, taking in sharp and painful breaths before his vision came into focus of the man who looked down at him.

                “Androbeles.” The Convict’s voice, although muffled from his scarf, was thick like mud and emanated from the man powerfully.

                The Archjustice, still gasping and wincing every time he did due to his injured ribs peered up at his captor. Some water must have seeped under his mask during the journey down, making it even more difficult for him to breathe.

                The Convict gripped Androbeles’ by the neck of his robe, his finger digging into the man’s chest, and yanked him up so that they’d be face to face.

                The Archjustice immediately realized how much taller his captor was than him, his towering frame challenging that of demons. His body was covered in a long grey traveling coat, the inside lined with wool still dripping from his journey down the river. It had brass buttons that held it together, each dirtied with dust and dirt from longtime use. The collar of the coat was pulled up high, helping conceal his face along with the wide-brimmed hat and scarf. And on his eyes he wore large red goggles, completely concealing his eyes from the view of Androbeles.

                The Convict’s other hand grasped the Archjustice’s chin, and Androbeles braced himself. However, he was only met with digits clad in leather undoing the clasps around the bottom of his mask and lifting it forward slightly, causing a small reservoir of water that had accumulated to come spilling out.

                Although it still hurt to breathe, now Androbeles could actually get a good amount of oxygen into his lungs and took great gasps of air to do so. The Convict watched silently as the infallible head of the Commonwealth utilized what little strength he had to simply catch his breath.

“Who…” his voice was weak and sounded more like the gurgle of an old, dying man than the booming preaching and sentencing from the Commonwealth’s highest authority. “You… you have no right...”

Androbeles wasn’t in idiot. He knew that he had made many enemies in his position as the Archjustice, just as all archjustices before him had. But now that the Commonwealth was overthrown, people could actually act upon that animosity. Whoever his kidnapper was, he knew that he likely wasn’t going to keep him alive for much longer. He probably had brought him to the Downside to enact some sort of poetic vengeance, he figured.

Androbeles focused his mind, utilizing the enlightenment he had gained from the Rites, the knowledge that the Book had given him, and the power that was bound between its pages and hidden within its words. He had been living in the Downside for about a fullmoon and a half with the Nightwings, and although they had multiple failures, each offered him the opportunity for his powers to grow even stronger. This would take a lot out of him, but it was the best chance he had.

He directed his gaze to the man before him and focused on trying to send a psychic barrage toward the mind of his captor. His thoughts slammed against the psyche of his opponent, unable to penetrate in the slightest.

_What? How is this possible?_ The Archjustice’s panicked thoughts raced through his mind. When his abilities as a Reader began to manifest, Androbeles has utilized them to their fullest, dazing opponents and reading their minds to gain insight into their plans. Yet whoever this was appeared to be fully immune. Sure, Androbeles’ abilities had likely waned over time since he had held the Book, but his position as the Voice overseeing the Rites had definitely ensured that he still held a large degree of power.

_Is he a Reader as well?_

The thought petrified the Archjustice. If that was the case, then he was doomed. Desperate, Androbeles focused all of his remaining mental energy on a psychic shockwave, hoping at least to alert someone nearby to his presence. Anyone at all, he didn’t care so long as they rescue him! His thoughts reverberated throughout the landscape, spreading like a large ripple and seeking any who could sense-

“Ahem.” An annoyed muffle grunt emitted from the figure in front of him.

The red saucers simply reflected his masked visage back at him, the man behind them staring silently. Suddenly he pulled his shoulder back, curling his hand into a fist before launching it straight into the jaw of the Archjustice.

Shards of porcelain rained down from his face in a resounding crack as the bottom portion of his mask shattered. The Convict had stopped supporting him as soon as his fist landed, causing the blow to send him sprawling back down to the bottom of the riverbank, the edges of his wig being swept along by the uncaring water.

“I have _every_ right.”

The Convict grabbed the groaning man and pulled him over his shoulder, easily carrying the Archjustice without trouble.

“Don’t try anything like that again.” The gravelly voice warned. “I know your tricks.”

A splash from in front of him caught the Convict’s attention, causing him to look at the river. Just upstream was the body of Chaplain Decimus. He had thrown the old man down the river before leaping in with Androbeles. It was good to see that he had at least made it this far before dying. The more suffering he went through, the better.

A low croak proved the Convict to be wrong, however. The muffled groaning of the man betrayed his living state, causing the Convict to reach in the waters and grasp his foot with his free hand, the one not holding the Archjustice and wrapped in the chain leash, just as it began to pass him. He inspected the pathetic geezer through his snow goggles as he pulled him ashore. Unlike the Archjustice who got to keep his fancy garments due to his house arrest, Decimus was wrapped in the thin rags of a prisoner, the edges of which had been torn off by the rushing torrent of the water. The prisoner made no indication that he was aware of anything happening around him, his bald and wrinkled features simply letting out a continual low groan. His lanky form shook with pain, beads of sweat beginning to manifest on his face.

He wasn’t long for this world. Luckily, the Convict didn’t plan to keep him alive anyway.

Carrying the weak Archjustice in one hand and dragging the chaplain with the other, the Convict made his way up a nearby sand dune. Once atop the mound, he set down the Androbeles on one side, dropped Decimus face first into the sand on his other, and sat, waiting.

The winds nipped at his longcoat as he remained perched on the dune, his eyes scanning the horizon for a sign of his contact. Decimus continued his groaning and Androbeles let out weak sighs and croaks, his energy exhausted. He could see the wetness of his clothes quickly drying in the sunlight. The three remained like this for minutes on end, until-  

A nearby howl echoed across the Sandfolds. Howlers.

The Convict stood up and reached for Decimus’ collar once again, dragging the tattered garment and its wearer along with it across the sand as he searched for the source of the animalistic cry.

Sure enough, within a minute a myriad of bipedal imp-like animals had approached the sand dune. Their fur was spiky and coarse, and saliva trickled down between their yellow, pointed teeth. The Convict remembered howlers from his time in the Downside. He did not encounter them until he reached the Downside Prairie, but regardless they existed in multiple regions of the plane, the Sandfolds and Prairie being two of many. The ones native to here liked to feast on new arrivals from the river, and their fur had turned a light brown to adapt to the arid region. He had been informed that he might face trouble from the creatures.

That was what Decimus was for.

The Convict grabbed Decimus’ jaw in an iron grip with one hand and gripped his the back of his head with the other. Mustering a large degree of strength, he pulled with each until a loud, sickening _pop_ resonated from the man’s neck, causing his groaning to immediately cease. A quick look at his eyes revealed him to still be alive, merely paralyzed.

The howlers watched him from below, hungry and desperate. The end of the practice of exile meant they had gone hungry for many moons, eating what little scraps they could find such as bugs, or sometimes, even each other.

And there’s nothing more dangerous than a starving, desperate animal.

The Convict shoved Decimus forward, causing his body to ungraciously roll down the dune until it landed just in front of the beasts. Without hesitation, they immediately rushed toward the chaplain and began biting into his frail body. The sound of flesh being torn and ripped resonated throughout the dry landscape as the beasts tore muscle and bone, eagerly filling their starving gullets with the marrow and meat of the dying man.

Their feast was stopped by a loud growl from the largest one in the pack. It grunted, and the howlers grabbed onto the man’s open flesh with their teeth and began to drag him away. They left a trail of red lifeblood across the sand as they went, and continued until they passed a dune and went out of site.

Androbeles, unable to move his body lied there, horrified at what had just occurred. He had no words, all semblance of retort having exited him from the abhorrent sight he had just observed. He prayed the same fate did not await him.

But if that was how this brigand dealt with those he didn’t even care about, he shuddered to think what fate awaited him.

The sound of a small _pop_ shook the Archjustice out of his stupor, causing him to shift his head with what little strength he had to look at its source.

The Convict had opened a small canteen of water, and pulling his scarf down and gulped down the sweet nectar that was fresh water. He took it out from between his lips, pulled his scarf back up, and was about to cap it when he saw Androbeles looking at him from his place on the ground.

He capped the canteen. “You’ll live.”

Sitting down once again, the Convict casually rested his arm on his knee.

And he waited some more.

* * *

 “I think we’re just about there.” The Reader spoke.

That apparently roused Almer from his nap, whose closed eyelids slowly opened with a yawn. “We’re there?”

“Almost. I’m setting us down a bit downstream.”

Sam could see Almer rubbing his eyes, sitting upright from where he had leaned back on the chair and fell asleep during their voyage. Ti’zo was sat in his nest, fiddling with the floating, glowing stone they had taken from Mount Soliam. It was evening now, the sun just nearing the end of its descent on the horizon causing an orange sunset to illuminate the Sandfolds, igniting the clouds with a soft glow. This star-forsaken desert almost killed the Reader when he was first exiled, but he couldn’t help admit there was a certain beauty to the way the bright orange rays fell upon the dunes, casting a series shadows over the inhospitable desert.

The Reader landed the wagon behind one of the bigger dunes, concealing it from sight. He grabbed his cane and turned to the two others in the Blackwagon. “I think we need to go a bit upstream, and then we’ll be there.” He said.

“And this is where you saw this “goggle dude?””

“I wouldn’t call him a “dude,” but yes.” Sam replied, swinging open the red door of their wagon. “Ti’zo, you ready to go?”

“Scraaaa-hi?” the small imp asked.

“No, I didn’t see any fish-filled lakes, ponds, or other bodies of water when I first came through here.”

Ti’zo let out a small groan but ultimately decided to join the Reader and flew over to his shoulder, where he sat perched.

“Almer?”

He was still rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, but the boy nodded. “Yeah, sorry, I’m just a bit hungry.” He stretched his arms upwards. “I’m ready-what the-whatisthatthingdoingbythestars-“

Almer’s quick rambling caused Sam to look on his shoulder. Ti’zo seemed to be regurgitating something, and slowly but surely the shape of a small fish made its way out of the imp’s mouth until he held it by his teeth.

Almer stared, equally dumbfounded and disgusted. “What.”

“Scraaa-kirri-ki!” The imp’s voice was muffled by the dead fish between his teeth.

“Huh. That’s interesting, I didn’t know you could do that.”

“Hreee-ho!” Ti’zo puffed out his chest.

“Uh…” Almer kept glancing between the two. “What exactly is the imp saying, Reader?”

The Reader turned to the boy. “Oh right, I forgot, you can’t understand him. He’s just saying that he likes to keep things in his stomach. He was hoping to find some other fish so he wouldn’t have to eat that one because apparently, it has a bad aftertaste. But he said he’ll settle for it.” Sam scratched his head through the hood of his cloak. “Wait, I thought you said you didn’t find any fish.”

Ti’zo nodded, the dead animal still in between his teeth.  Aside from the saliva and strange thick slime-like substance that coated it, it looked completely untouched and undamaged. Sam figured if it was compared to another fish of its type, it would look identical, despite spending time the stomach of the imp “Scraaaaa-hi!” He chirped.

“That’s from how many moons ago?!”

Ti’zo just shrugged and let out a burp.

Almer was still standing there in a mixture of confusion and revulsion. “What..?”

“It seems imps can store prey in their stomachs for extended periods of time.” The Reader attempted to clarify.

“Screee-kir-hoo!” Ti’zo explained.

“Apparently it’s because they have to hunt long distances for food, so mother imps have to be able to keep food in their bodies for their young to feed to them later. Huh.” Sam shrugged. “Anyway, Ti’zo’s offering it to you because you said you were hungry.”

“Well, I’m definitely not hungry anymore.”

“Kree-hoo?” Ti’zo’s head tilted inquisitively.

The boy seemed to pick up on what he was being asked. “I… I’ve seem to have lost my appetite, that’s all.”

Shrugging, the bit down and sucked the fish into his mouth, chewing on it with a few large, crunchy bites, before swallowing it for real this time and letting out a slight burp.

The Reader looked to the brunette. “You ready to go?”

Almer’s widened eyes closed in a small sigh, likely struggling to believe the situation he had found himself in. “Yeah.”

The three exited the wagon and began to make their way upstream, following the river. The heat was fierce and came over the trio like a wave, but it was not nearly as hot as Jomeur Valley could get on some of its worst days. Countless sand dunes dotted the landscape, some gentle and low foothills, others large and steep ridges. The sands, normally a bland beach-like color, were lit to a darker orange hue due to dusk’s embrace. If one looked hard enough, they could just barely make out the edge of the Downside Prairie to the north, the verdant land only slightly less hostile, but nonetheless acting as a beacon to all exiles who seek to survive their sentence.

Sam led the way, with Almer staying behind him and Ti’zo flying around them. It was a few minutes before Sam held up his hand in a closed fist. “I think we’re close.” He whispered.

The Reader pointed to a nearby sand dune. “We can find cover there,” he said. “Just make sure to be quiet.”

Almer nodded wordlessly and followed. They had to use their hands to help them climb up the steep dune, and as they neared the top the Reader motioned for him to drop down low, himself setting down his cane and shifting his grip on it so he was grabbing the center of it, and lying on his stomach in an army crawl. His leg had grown sore from earlier, but the Reader ignored the protests of his body, driven on by his curiosity.

Almer followed suit, as did Ti’zo, who promptly whispered a chirp to Sam that he was entering “stealth mode.”

The trio made their way to the top of the dune and concealed themselves behind the peak.

“Ti’zo, try to fly around and see where they are.”

“Hree-ho!” the imp whispered back.

Ti’zo fluttered his wings a bit and circled around the other side of the mound, disappearing from sight.

“Is this guy really so dangerous that we have to hide from him?”

The Reader turned to Almer, who was lying next to him, looking irritated.

“I’m not sure, but I’d rather not take any chances.” Sam replied quietly.

A few minutes passed as the two lied on the sand. The only sound they heard was the wind of the hot breeze worming its way across the landscape, occasionally causing a cloud of sand to fly up and float around before settling once more.

“He could be gone by now.” Almer said quietly. “He likely is, assuming your vision wasn’t just some heat stroke-induced hallucination.”

“It wasn’t a hallucination,” The Reader murmured. “It couldn’t have been.”

“How can you tell?”

“I just can.”

“I didn’t know clairvoyance was an ability Readers possessed.” Almer snorted.

“I’m not clairvoyant, this is …something else.”

“Then what is it?”

“I don’t know!” Sam hissed, still trying to keep quiet.

A couple of more minutes passed before the Reader heard the boy next to him let out an aggravated sigh.

Almer rolled his eyes. “This is stupid.”

“Scra-hoo!” a voice rang out from behind them.

“You wait until _now_ to say that?”

“I didn’t want to appear rude after you gave me a ride to the Spring!”

“Scra-hoo!”

The Reader felt the orb slightly vibrate and could make out wisps of a green mist beginning to seep from the folds of his clothing. The last thing he needed was another voice joining the argument, prompting him to reach for the orb and grab it.

“I’m sorry, but this is ridiculous.” Almer stood up, brushing sand off of his clothes. “I appreciate what’ve you done for me, Reader, but I’ll wait in the Blackwagon.”

“Wait!” Sam stood up as well. “You’ll alert them to our presenceeee!-“

The Reader forgot to take into account how steep the sand dune was, his cane losing contact from the precipitous incline causing him to lose his balance. The orb slipped from his hand and began rolling down the way they came up the mound. He fell backwards onto the top of the dune, and his world went spinning as he began tumbling down the other side. Clouds of sand went flying into the air as he carved a trail down the dune, letting out grunts of pain as he rolled, again and again, eventually plopping onto the sand-floor. The airborne sand drifted around his fallen form like a thin fog.

_Ow._ Sam rubbed his leg, which had gone from sore to hurting once again. It didn’t seem injured but stung nonetheless from the uncomfortable movements it had just endured. The Reader took a moment to get his bearings. He was lying on his stomach, face down in the sand. His cane had fallen a few feet away from him, and he was lying with his head resting on the incline of the dune.

_Wait._ Sam looked up. He lying at the bottom of the dune. On the _other_ side.

_Oh, that’s just swell._

This was further cemented by the heavy footfalls he heard from behind him.

_Well, shit._

He turned his head around hesitantly, the hood of his cloak having managed to stay atop the Reader’s head and helped to conceal some of his features. A large, broad-shouldered figure was approaching him, but his back was to the sun, causing Sam to squint, unable to get a good look at the man.

The stranger got within a few feet of him and had begun to reach into his buttoned-up coat but stopped suddenly. It seemed that he was staring intently at something on the Reader’s back. A chill went down Sam’s spine as the towering man inspected him. However, now that he was closer, the Reader could actually examine the man. He wore wide red snow goggles, a large black hat, a fur scarf the color of silver, and a long gray traveling coat which fell to his knees and although worn, still seemed thick. The pulled up collar revealed an inner wool lining that looked sullied, perhaps once being as white as the sheep it came from but now had taken on a tannish hue.

All of it looked just like the man he had saw in his premonition, except for one small detail.

That small detail being the Archjustice himself, Androbeles IX, slung over his shoulder like a bag of potatoes.

Sam tried to meet his eyes but was unable to see past his goggles. He could see the man’s head looking down in his direction, but was couldn’t determine if the stranger was actually making eye contact with him.

Suddenly, the figure let his arm fall down to his side, causing Androbeles to fall to the ground with a large _plop_ , accompanied by a groan of pain. That same arm then latched onto the Reader’s shoulder and forcefully turned him around and onto his back.

Sam put his hands up defensively, and he saw the Stranger reaching for his face. He closed his eyes and flinched, bracing for the worse.

                Only to find him fiddling with the collar of his shirt erratically, as if he were in a hurry.

                “What are you-“

                The Stranger yanked down the top of his shirt, revealing his collarbone. Sam glanced down to see what he was looking at.

                There, near the top of his pectoral and surrounded by multiple lashing scars, was the brand given to all of those who dared to betray the Commonwealth’s laws and self-described mercy by seeking the forbidden knowledge contained in text.

                The Hollow Star.

                It was the same marking that was on the back of his cloak, which had been given to him upon exile as a reminder to all of his “abhorrent crime” It was shaped like a typical five-pointed star, but instead of being a solid color it was merely a black outline with lines connecting the points of the celestial shape, and a single large line that ran down the center, splitting it in half.

                The Stranger stared intensely at it for a painfully long time. Sam’s hairs were standing on end as he lied motionless, afraid that if he moved he would spur the man into some sort of hostile action.

                “Who’ve you got over there, Lector?” A feminine voice called from far behind the mysterious figure.

                The Stranger let go of Sam turned around, allowing the Reader to see the voice’s origin. It was a harp who was standing in front of a teal-colored Blackwagon that was parked at the base of a small sand dune in the distance. Her wings were a deep crimson, almost maroon, and she wore an ash gray jacket, the epaulets, double-breasted buttons, and folded collar of which revealed its military origin. Similar trousers covered her legs, leaving only her talons bare to walk across the ground with. Sam tried making out the details of her face, but the distance and glare from the sunlight made it impossible.

                The tall man turned back to the Reader. He stared at him for a few seconds before letting go of his shirt and rising to a tall, imposing stature. Sam reckoned he’d likely only be a few inches under Jodariel in height. “Just a straggler.” His voice, although muffled and possessing more gravel than an unpaved road, echoed back just as loud as the woman he was responding to was.

                “Well then, just kill him and be done with it, already! I hate the way this sand gets in between my talons!”

                Sam swallowed, a chill running down his spine. Just then a small winged shadow passed over them. The imp soared down from the skies and hovered defensively in front of the Reader.

                “Scraaaa-hi!” Ti’zo screeched, baring his sharp teeth and outstretching his wings threateningly.

                The Stranger, now known as Lector, turned back in his direction and considered the imp for merely a moment before directing his gaze back at the harp. “No point in wasting any more time.”

                “Then grab Androbeles and get your ass over here, the boss wants us to see her pronto!”

                The Reader looked for the aforementioned Archjustice. He was just behind Lector, where had he had been unceremoniously dropped onto the ground. He lied face down, and Sam could see his crown dipped to the side of his head and his mask loosely hanging off his face, the bottom half of it shattered, revealing a weathered mouth that was locked into a grimace. Sam could make out blue, bloodshot eyes in the two rectangular lines that were drawn onto the mask

                And he was glaring at the Reader very, _very_ intently.

                It was then that for the second time that day Sam experienced the mental equivalent of an imp exploding in his skull. He let out a yell of pain as his mind turned to searing hot fire, his hands grasping at the sides of his head in a death-grip. He inhaled sharply but found no release from the agony, and could already see the edges of his vision turning black and then something broke down the walls of his psyche, flooding into the innermost part of him like and tidal wave and by the stars does it hurt-

                Then, as soon as it had started it stopped, leaving only a hazy ache in the back of the Reader’s mind, and rendering him a gasping mess on the ground.

                He blinked repeatedly, his vision slowly returning to him, and saw a familiar tall figure staring down at him, the Reader’s sweating face reflected in those cold, unreadable red goggles. Androbeles was still sprawled out on the ground behind him but was now face down and limp. The large covered-up man started toward the Reader and reached out a hand, aiming for his head.

                “LECTOR!” A shrill voice shrieked.

                His hand stopped mid-motion. Lector slowly straightened his posture and turned back to the harp, who stood with her wings on her hips and was tapping her talons against the sand. Sam heard what sounded like a muffled grunt from the man.

                Without a word, Lector grabbed the Archjustice and hoisted him over his shoulder. As he did so, the glass crown Androbeles wore fell off and landed on the sand. If the captor noticed, he didn’t care enough to grab it. Lector left the Reader, walking over to the harp. They were exchanging words but Sam was too far away to make out what was being said.

                “Scraaa-hee?”

                Sam looked up to see Ti’zo, who had landed and stood on his chest, looking down at him anxiously. “Scraaa-hee?” he gently prodded again, his large eyes peering into Sam’s own nervously.

                The Reader reached put his hand as lightly scratched the top of the imp’s head. “I’m fine, Ti’zo.”

                The slamming of a door grabbed his attention. Looking past Ti’zo, he saw the artificial wings of the parked blackwagon sprout open, before the vehicle began to move across the sands and pick up pace. It was only a few more seconds before it was lifting off the ground and soaring into the skies, which had just begun to turn a dark violet as the sun descended below the horizon.

                Sam stood up, causing Ti’zo to flutter off of his chest. He hobbled over to his cane and used it to stand up, ensuring he was putting as little weight as possible onto his bad leg. He looked down at the Astral Crown, which had been left in the sand. Surprisingly it didn’t look damaged at all, dirty yes but not actually broken. The Reader reached down and put the headpiece into one of the folds of his clothing.

The scuttling of sand alerted him to Almer, who had just made his way around the knoll of sand, holding the orb between his two hands.

                The boy approached the Reader. “Are you alright?”

                Before Sam could even get a word out, the orb erupted into a green mist, conjuring further a Sandra who looked more than a little angry.

                “Boy,” she growled, “I understand that the concept of bravery is completely foreign to you but do you truly lack the slightest semblance of courage?”

                Almer frowned tossed the orb to the Reader, who fumbled with it before the boy retorted. “I was being tactical.”

                “Tactical means a plan of _attack_ , you gutless skulker. Is cowering behind a sand dune, leaving _my_ Reader to the howlers tactical? Is that what you call an attack?”

                “There weren’t any howlers!” Almer angrily threw his hands up in an exasperated gesture. “It was just one guy!”

                “Then you shouldn’t have had a problem defending him, you spineless pup. Or was it perhaps you knew you lacked the strength and skill?”

                “Do not call me a pup, you miserable-“

                “That’s enough!” A voice shouted.

                Sam hardly ever raised his voice, more content to let others do the talking. Even though his time with the Nightwings had ‘brought him out of his shell,’ so to speak, and their absence did force him to engage in interaction on his own, he still considered himself a quiet person, and knew others considered him that as well. Which made a yell from him all the more notable.

                The heat had begun to die down, a hostile chill slowly seeping all around in its place. “How about we just head back to the wagon, and we can talk about this where we won’t get eaten by howlers?”

                Almer and Sandra both gave grunts of disapproval but otherwise didn’t object. Ti’zo didn’t say anything but was clearly happy at the idea of ending the argument, if his calmed facial expressions were any indication.             

* * *

 

                “Alright, is that it?”

                “Unfortunately, yes.”

                They had returned to the Blackwagon and were situated inside, with Sam and Almer opting to sit down at the table with the orb safety returned to the folds of Sam’s apparel. Sandra too was in the room, projecting from the magical prison into the air where she was crossing her arms, while Ti’zo sat in his nest, his little feet dangling off.

                A few candles illuminated the room, along with the magical trinkets that were scattered across the wagon, each glowering with their own arcane enchantments.

                “Well, I still think that if you had a problem with the whole thing, you should have mentioned it at the start, Almer.” Sam tapped his fingers against the table.

                “I didn’t want to appear ungrateful.”

                “That didn’t seem to stop you from getting up at the last second.”

                Almer rubbed the back of his neck. “Lying down in the sand and waiting for something I didn’t think was true may have made me a bit… irritated.”

                 “Being irritated does not excuse throwing a comrade to the slaughter, boy.” Sandra chimed in.

                “Well, regardless, it’s over now. Besides, I doubt Almer rushing down to help me would have really changed much.” The Reader stretched his arms above his head in a catlike motion and let out a yawn. “I’d rather not fly while tired, so I think it’s best for us to spend the night here and then head back to Barker’s camp.”

                “Wait, wait, wait,” Almer crossed his arms. “Are we just going to ignore your little episode?”

                “I wouldn’t call it an episode, it was just a… random, really intense headache.”

                “And what about Archjustice Androbeles IX _himself_ being in the Downside? Are we ignoring that too?”

                “No, we’re not ignoring anything.” Sam out his hands up defensively. “I’m just as curious as you are, but we aren’t really in a position to do anything about it right now.”

                “Scraaaaa-kii!” Ti’zo chirped, indicating the darkness that had set over the skies.

                “Ti’zo’s right. It’s too dark to follow them, and we don’t even know what’s going on or if we should even involve ourselves. It’s best we just sleep on this and talk about it later.”

                “I believe we have a more pressing issue, Sam.” Sandra spoke, turning to face her lover. “I may not have been able to _see_ it but I certainly heard that scream of yours.”

                “And I didn’t see that “Lector” guy touch you at all,” Almer added. “You just grabbed your head and started screaming.”

                “I…” The Reader struggled to find the words. He himself didn’t even know what happened, and the last thing he wanted was Sandra and Ti’zo worrying about him. He felt fine now though, but he had to admit he was still struggling to understand what exactly is going on. “I’m not sure. The Archjustice is a reader too, so he probably-“

                “Wait, what?”

                Almer interrupted him, causing everyone to turn to the boy, who was looking at Sam as if he was insane. “You’re telling me that Archjustice Androbeles IX… is literate.”

                “Well, his actual name is Brighton, but yes. He was a member of the Nightwings some years ago.”

                Almer stared at the Reader with a look of disbelief. “Are you sure you didn’t hit your head on a rock or something when you tumbled down that sand dune?”

                “Our lovely Reader speaks the truth.” Sandra said. Ti’zo too affirmed Sam’s statement, the boy finding he was getting better at understanding the imp.

Almer blinked and then slowly stood up and put his hands on his head. “Okay,” he breathed. “All I wanted was for you to take me to the Spring of Jomeur. That was it. Instead, I find out that not only is the Archjustice still alive, but he’s in the Downside and you _know him_?!”

                “Of him.” Sam corrected. “Well, he was the Voice that spoke during the Rites, so I suppose we both technically-“

                “He what?!”

                “You know, this is all a lot to take in for all of us, so I think its best we just head off to bed.” Sam abruptly stood up and grabbed his cane from its resting place against the table. “There are extra bedrolls in the common room, so feel free to grab one.” He turned and began to walk into the room.

                “Wait a moment, Sam.”

                The Reader stopped dead in his tracks and slowly turned to Sandra, whose face bore no amusement from his avoidance of the earlier topic.

“Yes, dear?” Sam tried and failed at sounding innocent.

 “We’re going to investigate this problem of yours.”

                “I don’t have a problem,” Sam said defensively. “I was trying to say it earlier. Since the Archjustice is a reader, he probably just tried attacking my mind as one last “screw you” before whoever those people were dragged him off.”

                “Readers can attack minds?” Almer’s hopelessly confused voice could be heard from behind them.

                Sandra’s mouse twitched. “Boy, you mentioned you once lived in some hamlet called “Hollowroot,” yes?”

                Almer quickly shook himself out of his stupor. “Uh, yeah, why?”

                “Is there a practitioner of clerical shamanistic arts that lives in that abode?”

                “…there’s a doctor.”

                “Then we shall depart for Hollowroot at first light.”

                “Sandra,” the Reader began, “that’s hardly necessary.”

                “I don’t see why not, it is not a far departure from our path, is it?”

                “Hreee-hoo!”

                “Ti’zo, don’t encourage her!”

                “Sam, if there is something wrong with you that we must ascertain as to what that is and handle it with the utmost care.” Sandra crossed her arms.

                “Sandra, the chance of this being some weird disease or affliction is one-in-a-million,” Sam said, the statistic completely false and improvised. “Besides, you know I don’t like doctors.”

                “And I don’t like my Reader neglecting his own health.”

                “But-“

                “No buts!”

                Sam slumped, defeated, and sheepishly turned to Almer, who had been watching the exchange with bafflement and a hint of amusement. “I’ll explain everything in the morning. Sorry about dragging you into this. Good night.” He promptly sauntered off into the common room, Sandra’s ghostly apparition trailing alongside him.

                Almer waited until they were out of earshot before muttering “Well, I guess it’s clear who wears the pants in the relationship.” He turned to Ti’zo. “Did they even have pants back where she comes from?”

                Ti’zo shrugged his wings.             

* * *

 

                Sam lied in his bedroll, Sandra having returned back into her orb. Almer had grabbed a bedroll from the common room but was sleeping in the main part of the wagon with Ti’zo. He claimed it was because it was warmer there, but Sam thought he was merely afraid of Sandra attempting to haunt him in some manner during the night.

Usually, at night, the Reader would link his own mind with hers, in the orb, but he hadn’t done so yet as he couldn’t help but feel he was forgetting something.

                _Oh right, the candles._ It wouldn’t do to leave them burning overnight. The light could attract howlers, assuming they’d even be able to get into the wagon. But still, better safe than sorry.

                Sam opened his eyes, ready to get out of bed and blow them out only to be met with a face staring down at him. The figure it belonged to wore a long, flowing white robe marked with celestial runes and holy glyphs, along with black gloves and a black bandana-like cloth around his neck that contrasted with the brightness of the robe. A grey powdered wig was placed atop his head and descended just past his shoulders. Most striking, however, was the white porcelain mask with the black line drawn horizontally across where the eyes would be, marked and separated by three similarly black vertical lines. Two of which contained holes to the eyes.

                Eyes that were very much real and very much staring down at him.

                _Hello, Reader._ The familiar voice radiated self-righteousness.

The Reader blinked and then promptly let out a high-pitched scream that waked his companions and echoed across the Downside.

 


	2. Hollow Star

Sam’s scream, a high-pitched and startling sound, echoed throughout the Blackwagon in all its ear-piercing glory.

                He quickly used his feet to back up out of the bedroll he had been lying in and found his back pressed against the cold wood of the wagon’s frame.

                The Archjustice started down at him, still standing where he was at the head of the bedroll. His expression was unreadable from underneath his mask.

                “It-it’s you?”

                _‘Tis I indeed, Reader._ He rolled the ‘r’ in the same extravagant tone his voice had held when he communicated to Sam during the Rites.

                Sam felt his lips quiver as he stared in confused terror. He could hear someone saying something to him but was far too focused on the holy official before him.

                _What’s the matter, Reader?_ The robed man taunted, relaxed in his posture as he made his way over to Sam, before slowly bending over so that their faces were mere inches apart. _Has the howler got your tongue?_

 

                Sam saw him get carried off by that strange man named “Lector,” how was he here in the Blackwagon? How could he have snuck in without alerting anyone? It didn’t take long for the frightened Reader to arrive at a conclusion.

                 “Y-you aren’t…” Sam’s voice shook as he struggled to get out the words. “You can’t be real.” Surely he was just tired, this had to be merely an effect of exhaustion or perhaps something he had eaten.

                _Oh,_ Androbeles leaned in even closer so that his concealed eyes were virtually pressed against the Reader’s own.

  _But I am._

                Sam felt his consciousness decide it wasn’t having it and leave him, causing his vision to quickly blur and fade to black as his head slumped against the back wall of the wagon.

* * *

              Sam resisted the urge to wipe the sweat pouring down from his forehead, instead opting to keep his attention completely focused on the battle unfolding before him. And it was truly a battle, two trios of robed bodies competing for victory. Competing for freedom: competing for the fate of the Commonwealth.

_“The will to overcome shall urge us on…_

_To brave injustice ‘til the stars have gone.”_

                _Bertrude, pass it to Ti’zo!_

If there was one thing being in the Downside had taught the Reader, it was that appearances can be very deceiving. This was evidenced by the speed at which the hunched form of the bog-crone Bertrude slithered to the side, nearly avoiding the implosion of an orange-clad imp before sending the Celestial Orb over to Ti’zo.

                The sphere appeared above the imp, and with perfect harmony, he zipped in a zig-zag pattern over to the enemies’ pyre. A bestial roar erupted to his side, and the imp didn’t have time to respond before an immense wave of Aura swept across him, sending him to Banishment.

_“The favor of the Scribes arrives at dawn.”_

                Volfred saw this from his place in the center of the court and narrowly avoided a white fireball, dodging forward. He barely had time to look up, quickly realizing that the hulking form of the demon that had banished Ti’zo was airborne and leaping in his direction. He blinked forward, vanishing underground for a split second before appearing right below the Orb, the celestial sphere coming into his possession.

                Which apparently was exactly what the horned man was planning.

                Coming out from behind a crystal pillar was the Nomad that had aligned themself with the demon, who sent forth their own aura in a quick surge that banished the sap, leaving the Celestial Orb free for the taking.

_“Who shall rise again?”_

                Which is exactly what the Nomad did, running to it to obtain it, and then sprinting their way over to the Nightwings’ pyre.

_“Who lights the way for the aimless?_

_Favor is for the true Scribe-blessed!”_

                _Bertrude, don’t let them get any closer! We can’t take another hit!_

The crone weaved in-between the crystal shards dotting the landscape, and leapt out in front of the nomad, causing them to be sent back and away from the Nightwings’ pyre. Bertrude quickly followed up with a surge of her aura, banishing the nomad.

_“Exalted by the flame’s ascent,”_

                However, both the crone and the Reader had failed to realize the imposing demon that had come around from the side-

_“Only the purest heart repents!”_

                _Watch out!-_

                Sam was silenced by the sound of the Celestial Orb falling to the ground, its glassy surface clacking against the ash-covered marble. The horned man grunted tiredly, making his way over to the sphere and taking it between his hands.

                _Nonononono, it’s only a few more seconds until Ti’zo-_

_“Repent!”_

The towering stone frames of Murr, Tithis, Ores, and all the others watched impassively as Oralech roughly tossed the Orb into the tiny, flickering blaze that was the Nightwings’ pyre, causing it to be quickly extinguished. Only a few remaining trails of smoke gave evidence to its existence.

                _And, there it is, at last. The True Nightwings proved their worth._ The Voice boomed from its omnipresent position. _As for the Nightwings, they most certainly did not._

Sam felt his legs give out, the sensation of his knees hitting the cold marble barely registering. They had lost. Oralech would go free.

                The Plan would fail.

                He blinked back the wetness gathering at his eyes, trying to stay strong for his friends, but was distracted by a flicker of red light from above that caught his attention. The Reader looked upward at the sky.

                The crimson constellations of the Titan Stars didn’t bother acknowledging his presence, only slowly beginning to fade away back into the blackness above. When they had first appeared, Sam experimentally tried a few in some of the low-risk Rites, but ultimately decided against using them. To him, the risks far outweighed any gains.

                Yet once the Final Liberation Rite began, he saw the twisted body of Yslach Astral-Born take form in the sky. Sam was confused, the stars of the Greater Titans had never taken form before of their own accord. He tried to wish it away, turn it off like he had done so in the past but it refused to fade. Just then the other Titan Stars next to it began glowing with red light as well, and in a ripple effect, all of the constellations had begun showing themselves in the sky.

                The Reader was panicked, and found that he couldn’t remove the presence of the Titan Stars. They had activated themselves.

They maintained their position in the sky all throughout the Rite, spelling demise for the Nightwings. It was as if the Greater Titans themselves had ensured their loss.

Now they were fading away, their job done, it seemed. They all disappeared, all except for that of the Astral-Titan’s. Its wicked form remained there as if to taunt him. The shape of the thing was almost like a sphere but bore sharp spikes and edges, and from both sides and its bottom sprouted some form of strange appendage connected to the main body by a smaller sphere-shaped body part. Staring at it causing the Reader’s head to ache slightly, and only after remaining in the sky for a few more seconds than its compatriots did it return to the same void as them, gone from sight.

His memory from that point on was hazy, he remembers apologizing and the Shimmer-pool turning the same shade of crimson that the Titan Stars had adopted. He remembers Tariq and Celeste approaching them, and Oralech, donned in the white mystic robes of freedom, being warned by the two. He remembers reaching out to the demon, pleading-no, _begging_ for his case, using his abilities as a Reader to show them all of what they had done, and all of what they had done it for. He remembers the demon hesitating.

He remembers Oralech giving his freedom for Volfred’s.

When the demon had refused his freedom and offered it to the Reader, Sam didn’t hesitate to redirect it to the sap who had engineered the whole Plan they had dedicated themselves to. Volfred was hesitant at first, but Sam didn’t accept any ending to this story but the sap going free. He wasn’t sure what to think of Volfred when they had first met, the Reader was wary of him and even expected a form of betrayal from the older man. Yet he was pleasantly surprised by him as they grew closer over the course of the Rites, and both men found they had many things in common, such as their love of literature and history. By the time the final Liberation Rite had arrived, Sam considered the man a close friend and mentor.

And besides, it didn’t make sense for the sap to not go free on a logical level. The entirety of the Plan was all his doing: every agent who worked for it he hired and every move carefully plotted out he orchestrated. The new world he sought to build was going to need someone to be at its head, and every revolution needs its hero.

Sam wasn’t upset as he saw Volfred enter the Shimmer-pool. He was told from the start by the Voice that Readers don’t get to go free. Everyone who was freed would serve a purpose. Hedwyn was a natural leader and diplomat, whether he knew it or not. Jodariel was a strong warrior and also served as somewhat of a leader for the Nightwings, ensuring they never lost focus. Rukey seemed to know just about everyone worth knowing when it came to needing a favor. Fae didn’t deserve to die in the Downside just because of what she was born as. Gilman too still had a future ahead of him and Sam didn’t think his reason for self-exile was valid enough to remain. Similarly, he felt that Pamitha should learn to forgive herself, and her connections in the Highwing Remnants, although likely distant due to her actions, still existed and could prove valuable to the Plan.

As for the Reader, what was he? Just some introverted bookworm who can hardly walk, let alone assist in a revolution. Even Ti’zo and Bertrude would serve a greater purpose if liberated than he. No, Readers don’t get to go free.

Neither do the undeserving.

He kept those thoughts to himself as he watched Volfred ascend to freedom, and to a better world.

The only regret he had was that he couldn’t have liberated more of the others, and that the stars hadn’t forced such a tragic fate upon them.

* * *

                A groan came forth from the Reader’s throat as his eyelids cracked open to meet morning light spilling in from the windows of the entry room. His neck felt sore from where it was awkwardly slouched against the wooden frame of the Blackwagon.  That wasn’t the first time he had dreamed of the final Liberation Rite, and it likely wouldn’t be the last.

He sat up, rubbing his neck in an effort to relieve some of the tension, and felt something shift in his lap. Sam looked down, seeing the greenish glow of the Beyonder Orb in his lap.

                He placed his hands upon the Orb. “Sandra?

                It was only a moment before he heard her familiar voice echo in his mind. “Yes? What is it?”

                “…nothing.”

The memory of the night before plagued the Reader. _Was that a dream as well?_

Sam reached over to where his cane laid before his disheveled bedroll and used it to prop himself up as he rose, hearing his back give out more than a few cracks as he did so.

“Hey Sandra,” The Reader spoke as he nudged his bad leg, causing him to wince. It was still sore from the events of the previous day. “Did you… hear anything last night?”

“Like what?”

“Just anything strange.”

The specter answered after a moment of silence. “I was, for a moment, under the impression I heard some sort of horrific banshee screech last night, but when I inquired to you as to whether or not you too had heard it you had already dozed off.”

“…oh.”

“Why? Did something happen?”

“No! Nothing at all.”

Sam entered the entry room of the wagon to find Almer face down and completely covered by his bedroll. The boy was completely still aside from the occasional grunt and kick of his leg. A quick chirp alerted the crippled scholar to another companion, this one not under slumber’s tempting hold.

“Screee-hi!” Ti’zo descended down from his nest onto the small, circular table in the wagon. He looked up at the Reader with a toothy smile decorating his small features.

“Good to see you’re up, Ti’zo.” Sam stifled a yawn and walked over to the cooking pot that Hedwyn had left in the Blackwagon. “Hey, could you check what food we have in here?”

An affirmative sound from the imp, and he was off to scour the bags of supplies they had lying around in the cabin. Sam cleared out all of the smaller tins from the pot and made sure it was free of any dust or residue.

The flapping of wings and a muffled “Scweee” caused him to turn around. Ti’zo had a sack he was holding by his mouth, its cloth weighed down by what was hopefully edible content. The Reader grabbed the sack and undid the short string around the top.

“Alright, let’s see what we’re going to eat for breakfast today…” He pulled the sack open, and both Sam and the imp gazed down inside.

Silence filled the cabin.

The two looked up at each other, both bearing expressions of worry and hesitation.

“Well… I mean, we can _technically_ eat it.”

“Hreee-hoo…” Ti’zo’s stomach quaked in terror at the memory of the last time Hedwyn had “cooked” the substance. He wouldn’t be surprised if it had permanently corroded some of his taste buds.

“We probably should have nabbed some food from Barker before we left…” Sam sighed. “Well, it’s all we got. Hopefully looking over Hedwyn’s shoulder taught me enough to make sure this doesn’t kill us.”

* * *

Sam could see Almer stirring from his place on the bedroll, and sure enough after about a minute, he saw navy two eyes peeking from under the covers.

“…food?” The voice croaked.

Sam nodded. “Pull up a chair, I’m almost finished.”

The Reader reached into the steaming pot with a wooden ladle. He had cracked the door open to let out some of the steam but didn’t dare to cook outside in fear that the smell would attract howlers. Underneath the pot was not a fire, however, but the magma mug that they had retrieved from the Black Basin as a souvenir. Although it had served useful for keeping warm, Sam was informed by Bertrude that, upon agitation, it could grow to much hotter levels. It seems she was right, as it was currently hot enough to boil water with just a few shakes. It was a good thing the glass capsule it was encapsulated in was enchanted.

 

Almer shuffled his way out of the bedroll and stood. His hair was a messy mop of darkness upon his head, his eyes barely able to be seen through the black locks. He lazily reached up a hand to brush some of it out of his face and began tying it back with half-lidded eyes. “What’s on the menu?”

“Take a look for yourself.” Sam scooped some of the contents of the pot and emptied them into a wooden bowl, before placing a small spoon in it and putting it at the edge of the table. Almer tiredly pulled out a chair and unceremoniously plopped down in it and took a moment to inspect his meal.

Inside the bowl was some sort of brownish, thick muck. Most of it was liquid but some chunks could be seen floating around in the murky goo. Twirling his wooden spoon revealed the sludge to be heavy and dense, containing small crumb-like dollops.

“What…. is this?”

“Silt porridge, served fresh and with extra flavoring.” There wasn’t any extra flavoring, but Sam hoped it would maybe help it go down easier in a sort of placebo-like fashion.

Almer scooped some of the gunk with his spoon and raised it to his nose, sniffing. It didn’t seem to have any sort of scent. Sure it looked disgusting, but the boy learned from an early age not to judge food based on its appearance.

He brought the spoon to his lips but stopped when he saw Sam looking at him with an oddly large amount of intensity. Just over his shoulder, he could make out Ti’zo’s eyes, who watched him with no small degree of fear.

                Almer slowly lowered the spoon, his curiosity whisking away his drowsiness.

                “What?”

                “Hm?” The Reader blinked a few times as if coming out of a daze.

                “Why are you staring at me?”

                “What? I-I’m not staring at you, no-I’m… ruminating.”

                Almer blinked. “What?”

                “N-nothing, just continue as you were!” Sam suddenly became very intrigued with the pot filled with the “silt porridge” inside it, and began circling a spoon in it, his eyes downcast and avoiding Almer’s own. Ti’zo too looked away and was whistling some sort of tune.

                Almer snorted and directed his attention back to his spoonful of brown sludge. Without any further interruptions, he guided the spoon to the insides of his mouth and swallowed.

                Sam and Ti’zo immediately began staring as soon as they saw Almer no longer watching them. Both held their breath as they saw the boy experimentally toss the muck around between his cheeks, before swallowing.

                He went in for another spoonful and swallowed that as well. The imp and the Reader shared a confused look with each other before Sam decided to finally satisfy their curiosity.

                “Is it… good?”

                Almer’s eyes directed their gaze back to him, and the young man swallowed before answering. “It’s alright, not the best I’ve had, but I wouldn’t call it bad.”

                _Huh. Maybe Hedwyn’s cooking skills did end up rubbing off on me._

                Sam scooped some porridge into a bowl for him, and then into a smaller one for Ti’zo.  He gathered some of the gruel onto a spoon and lifted it to his lips, letting it run down into his mouth.

                And then promptly utilized every ounce of willpower in his body not to send it straight back out the way it came.

                His hand flew to his mouth and clasped over it in an effort to ensure he wouldn’t cover the table and Almer in a flurry of saliva mixed with muck. He forced the putrid substance down his throat with a hard swallow. Sam narrowed his eyes at Almer.

                “I thought you said it wasn’t bad.”

                Almer—who had almost completely eaten his bowl clean—looked up at the Reader. “It’s not.”

                “It’s _abhorrent!_ ”

                “Screee-hooo…” a faint voiced agreed.

                Sam turned to Ti’zo. The imp’s face had adopted a greenish tone, and managed to maintain standing at the edge of the bowl—where he had been sipping the porridge—for only a few more seconds before collapsing onto his back with a blank expression.

                “Ti’zo?” the Reader questioned. “You okay?”

                If the imp heard him, he didn’t respond, opting instead to simply let out a harsh groan.

                Sam looked back to Almer. “You call this “not bad?!””

                “It’s not! Don’t blame me because the imp has a weak stomach!”

                “I told you he was not to be trusted, Sam.” Sandra materialized from the orb, her frowning form crossing her arms and floating behind her lover.

                “Look, Almer!” Sam pointed to Ti’zo. “Look what your lies and deception have caused! Look at what they’ve cost us!”

                Almer’s face turned exasperated, his hand flying out to gesture in the imp’s direction. “WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT? HE’S FINE!”

                Just then Ti’zo let out a hoarse gasp, the upper half of his body trying to get up, before collapsing, letting his wings fly out in either direction along with his tongue flopping out of his mouth in an exaggerated motion. His eyelids shut and he turned still.

                “Almer… you’ve killed him.”

                “Ugh!” The boy grunted and grabbed the large spoon from the cooking pot to scoop seconds into his bowl before getting up and walking off into the common room. “I’ll eat in the common room! Tell me when we reach Hollowroot.”

                Sam watched as Almer exited the cabin, and heard Sandra’s voice speak to him. “I didn’t take you as one who likes to tease, Sam. You’re usually so reserved.”

                “It’s kind of hard not to.”

                She chuckled. After making sure Ti’zo wasn’t actually dead, the Reader dumped what was left of the porridge out the door and began operating the piloting equipment for the Blackwagon.

* * *

                The Blackwagon groaned as Sam pulled down on another rope, causing its left wing to slightly open up further, allowing greater lift. He sighed, using the ropes to hold himself up and decided to take a moment to rest. Holding onto the ropes allowing him to take weight off of his bad leg, so he just left his cane leaning against the nearby wall.

                _We should be close to Hollowroot by now._ Sam figured. Ti’zo said that he was “recovering” in his nest but they both knew he had just decided to sleep in. A quick peek into the common room revealed Almer to still be awake, occupying his time by organizing some of the artifacts he had brought over from his own wagon. _Maybe I should get Almer to switch out with me, so I can take a break._

_Oh, I could take the reins from here if you’d like._

Turning to his right revealed the source of the voice: Androbeles.

                “Aah!” The Reader yelped, letting go of the handholds and tripping backwards so that his back was against the wall of the cabin, his cane leaning next to him.

                _Surprised to see me?_ The robed figure taunted. _What, you didn’t think the previous night was some sort of hallucination, did you?_

Sam grabbed his cane and put it in front of himself defensively.

                “You’re not real…”

                _Oh for stars’ sake, we just went over this._

                “It was the porridge.” The Reader mumbled, trying to deduce the possibility of the man standing in front of him. “I must be hallucinating because of the porridge.”

                _You know that’s not true._

                “Well, then why didn’t you appear earlier then?”

                _I was getting a grasp on the situation. You know, Reader, I’m well aware that the concept of acting with a hint of intelligence is completely foreign to you, but do try to use that minuscule brain of yours.”_

Sam grunted in annoyance. Holding a hand against the wall to balance himself, he swept at the Archjustice with his cane. The walking stick went completely through him. Androbeles looked down and then back up at the Reader unfazed.

                “So you aren’t real.”

                _Just how dense are you?_ The robed judge sighed and walked up to Sam, who edged away instinctively. He pointed his finger right at the cloaked man’s temple.

  1. _Am. In. Your. Head._



“…which means you aren’t real.”

                Androbeles turned around and threw his arms up in an exasperated fashion. _You’re impossible!_

Just then, in a sweeping gust of green ethereal mist and light, appeared Sandra. Her blind facial features appeared confused.

                “Oh, hello Sandra.”

                She nodded in greeting. “I thought Almer was in the common room.”

                “Y-yeah, he is.” Sam answered. Androbeles had turned around and seemed quite interested in the conversation unfolding before him.

                “Who are you speaking to then? Ti’zo?”

                “Uh…” A quick glance confirmed the imp to still be out cold in his nest, his chest rising and falling with deep breaths and a thick stream of drool pouring out of his wide-open mouth. “Yes.”

                _What’s the matter, Reader? Don’t want your friend knowing about me?_

“I wanted to ask how close we are to Hollowroot.” The assassin said.

                ”Oh!” Sam sputtered, realizing he had abandoned the flight controls. Thankfully the Blackwagon was still on a steady course. He resumed his post at the rope-handholds and looked out the window, seeing the terrain having turned from a coarse sea of sand to a grass-covered expanse. “Not far. I think we’ll be there soon. Why?”

                “Just curious.”

                _Oh, I never liked her._ Androbeles had gotten closer to Sam, and was standing at his side with his masked face looking up at the phantom. The Reader didn’t need to see his face to know that there was likely a look of disdain and disgust that laid upon it. _Always so… domineering._

                “You know her?” The question came out before Sam could stop himself.

                “Hm? Know who?” Sandra replied, the eyebrows upon her bronze face quirked inquisitively.

                “No one! Just talking to myself.”

                The look upon Sandra’s face said she was still curious but it seemed the blind woman decided not to question any further.

                _Reader._

                Sam looked over to the Archjustice. “What?” he whispered as silently as possible.

                Androbeles simply poked the Reader in the middle of his forehead. He didn’t feel anything, but still swatted at the hand anyway. To no avail, of course.

                “W-what do you think you’re doing?” Sam hissed.

                The robed judge didn’t bother replying, opting instead to begin prodding and swiping at the Reader’s body.

                “Cut that out!”

                Androbeles did not cut that out.

                “Stop doing that!” The Reader warned, louder than he intended to.

                “Sam.”

                Sandra’s words came out in a calm yet stern voice. Sam knew what that tone meant.

                “Yes..?”

                “Who are you speaking to?”

                “Ti’zo…”

                “I hear him sleeping.” The assassin replied. “I’m blind, not deaf, and this orb can still pick up a good deal of what’s happening around it.

                Sam let out a long sigh. “I-…” He was distracted by the smug aura of the Archjustice who stood before him, crossing his arms.

                _Oh, were you planning to keep me a secret?_

                The Reader gave him the best death glare he could before responding to Sandra. “Maybe I can show you.” He dug out the Beyonder Orb from the folds of his clothing. The orb functioned by linking the mind of whoever touched it directly within the realm of the orb itself, allowing for direction location and as the Scribes intended, practice of the Rites. If Androbeles was somehow a part of his mind, perhaps this would allow Sandra to be able to hear him.

                He held the glowing sphere between his fingers and felt the familiar sensation of light-headiness which quickly dissipated. “Alright, so-“

                _Hello, sister of the Arch. Enjoying your imprisonment?_

The assassin’s head snapped in the direction of Androbeles. _Well, it seemed that it worked._ Sam thought.

                “I recognize that voice…” she muttered.

                _You should, I’m told it’s as soft as velvet._

                Sandra narrowed her closed eyes. “You were with the Nightwings. With the demon and the woman.”

                _Indeed I was._

“How are you here?”

                _That is the question, isn’t it?_ Androbeles folded his hands behind his back and let out a sigh. _I was enjoying a rather comfortable house arrest, courtesy of your lovely Sandalwood, prior to my… descent._

                “House arrest?” Sam questioned. “That was your punishment?”

                _I was put there awaiting trial. I know from your actions during the Rites that you lot tend to favor delusion as a philosophy, but-_

“Wait.” The Reader interrupted. “It’s been a year since the Commonwealth fell, and you haven’t been tried yet?”

                _I was getting to that, Reader._ The Archjustice loudly cleared his throat. _Anyway, after the Commonwealth fell, they put me on house arrest to await my trial. However, it seems that there are some in this new government that do hold some shred of common sense. They argued and delayed my trial on the bounds that I had not committed any crimes—which is completely true—by the way._

Androbeles must have detected Sam’s confusion and answered before the Reader could respond. _You see, you cannot simply wish away a government in a single day. There are a good number officials in “parliament,”_ He said using air quotes, _that still adhere by the righteous beliefs of what the Commonwealth was founded on. Loyalists, they apparently call themselves. They argue that all that I and other justices have done were committed under a different government, thus different nation, thus I cannot be tried._

“What would they have to gain from this?” Sam questioned. He glanced at Sandra, who was oddly staying silent during all of this.

                _They seem to think that if they can put me back in a position of power, even one of a lesser statue than which I previously held, they will be rewarded by me. Which is true._ Androbeles snorted. _Or would have been, if it wasn’t for that damn vandal._

“Vandal?”

                _Big guy, about yay high_ , Androbeles said, putting his hand up about a foot above his head. _Wears goggles and a big coat despite the fact that he’s in a desert, I believe you’ve met._

“Lector.”

                _Yes, well dear Lector saw fit to raid my home, destroying multiple priceless historical artifacts in the process, might I add, grabbed me and then ran off to the river. He had some other man with him whom which I’m not acquainted, but I don’t think we’ll be having to worry about him._

“The river? Isn’t that right by the High Court building?” The Reader remembered being cast down the River. There were more guards there than he could count, no one should have been able to break in so easily.

                _Yes, well after the whole “no more exile” thing, they didn’t really need to guard it that much anymore, if my trip there is any evidence. I did see one sentry or two, so the gateway to the river is likely operating on a skeleton crew these days._

“That doesn’t answer how or why you’re here.” Sandra finally spoke up.

                _Well, if you’re so smart you should be able to figure it out._

“It was when Sam was at the bottom of the sand dune.” The phantom quickly deduced. “You used your abilities as a Reader to go into his mind.”

                _Correct. It’s good to see at least one of you has some brains between them-_

“Get out.”  
                _Excuse me?_

“Escort yourself out of my Reader’s head or I will escort you to the next world.”

                A chuckle rang out from the Archjustice. _I’m afraid that’s not possible._ Androbeles replied, crossing his arms. _I’m not just floating around in here aimlessly. I’m pretty sure that our mutual friend Lector didn’t intend on keeping me alive, so I made a split-second decision to more or less move in. Permanently._

                _You can do that?_ Sam thought. He knew his abilities as a Reader have grown and were still growing every time he studied and meditated on the Book of Rites and its teachings, but to be able to _propel your consciousness_?

                _Yes, I can do that._ Androbeles confirmed. _And since we’re sharing the same head I can also hear your thoughts, so I hope you don’t ponder on anything you want to keep private._

                Sam’s eyes widened. The situation he seemed to have found himself in seemed to be worse and worse by the minute.

                “Well then if you forced your way into his head, then you can be forced out.” Sandra’s lips were curled into an even deeper frown than usual.

                _Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure of that._ The Archjustice replied. _I’ve studied and practiced the Rites far more than he has, and with the actual Rites gone, well, I’m not so sure little Sam’s flower will ever fully bloom, so to speak._

The Reader found himself struggling not to shake in fear at the concept. “So that means…”

                _I think its best you get comfortable with me._ Androbeles edged close and swung an ethereal arm around Sam’s neck. _I suppose you and I will be together for, oh I don’t know, the rest of your life._

                Sandra was growing angrier by the second. Even at her most irritated, Sam had never seen her face bear such an acute form of barely-restrained rage.

                _Don’t get so fussy._ Sam could feel the smile radiating from the Archjustice’s words. _This will be fun!_

* * *

                They arrived at Hollowroot a few hours before the Sun would take its place in the center of the sky. Sandra had made the Reader swear not only to dedicate hours of study to the Book every night but to actively ask around in Hollowroot if there were any Readers who could assist in his plight. They had decided to keep the information from both Ti’zo and Almer to not worry them. Sam didn’t like keeping information from them, but he didn’t want them to be any more worried about him than they already were.

                They landed the Blackwagon behind some trees just outside the settlement. Ti’zo opted to stay behind to watch the wagon, and with Sandra (reluctantly) retreating back into her orb and left in the Blackwagon to question her fellow Beyonders, Sam and Almer made their way into Hollowroot.

                It seemed like the outpost actually more advanced than when the Reader had first stopped by it. There was a small fence lined with sharp spikes around the perimeter to keep out howlers, and even some guards by the entrance, who lazily waved them by as they entered. The buildings were made out of shoddy wood, most looking far more like shacks than homes, but the amount of people walking around proved that many, if not most of the people who arrived in the Downsides that didn’t seek to travel or participate in the Rites called this place home.

                _Fifty-nine bottles of ale on the wall, fifty-nine bottles of ale!_

It made sense why Hollowroot would be more populated than other places in the Downside. It wasn’t too far from the Sandfolds, being only in the next region over, and was probably the most hospitable out of all the areas in the Downside. Sam saw a good mix of harps, nomads, saps, and even a few demons making their way through the dirt paths that doubled as roads. The two passed by fields where some sort of tall, think yellow crops were being tended too by a few farmers. As Almer guided the Reader through the village, he began estimating that the population was probably around a thousand.

                _Take one down!_

                The boy guided him into an alley between two rows of buildings, a small gap blanketed in shade, and the two walked through, approaching-

                _Pass it around!_

                Almer pointed at the building they were approaching, it-             

                _Fifty-eight bottles of ale on the wall!_

_Will you shut up?!_

_O I’m sorry._ Androbeles’ voice echoed in his mind. The Archjustice apparently didn’t feel like conjuring a physical form into the Reader’s mind, opting instead to simply annoy him by projecting his voice into his head. _Was I disturbing you? Just ignore me, I’ll be quiet. Where was I? Was I at 99? I think I was at 99._

Sam groaned and held his face in his hands as he followed Almer. The only good thing about this was that he could communicate with Androbeles without talking, so at least he wouldn’t appear crazy.

                “Something wrong?

                The Reader looked up, seeing Almer staring back at him, his face a mixture of concern and curiosity. “Just a headache. “ He responded. “That’s why we’re here, right?”

                “Right... Anyway, this is it.”

                The building Almer was referring to looked just as run-down as the rest of the buildings in the shantytown. It did, however, seem a little bit longer. The roof had an eave attached to its end, hanging over the edge of the building to protect from rain. Just under it on the wall was a medical cross drawn with white paint.

                “I’ll wait outside.” Almer leaned against the wall of the building and crossed his arms.

                Sam nodded, and doing his best to ignore the singing that was still occupying his mind, approached the door. He stopped just as he gripped the handle, which was more rust than iron. “This guy’s trustworthy, right? They’re not going to try to stick anything weird in me?”

                The boy looked over to the Reader. “Oh, yeah, he’s fine. He may seem a bit… intimidating, but he’s a really good doctor. I wouldn’t get him angry, though.”

                “Alright, I’ll try to make this quick.” Steeling himself as best he could, Sam swung open the door. He heard a bell above him jingle as he entered. The inside of the building was lit by the streams of light gently floating in from the windows, revealing particles of dust floating around the room. There was a wooden desk at the far right end of the room with a seat behind it that was unoccupied. Just to the left of the desk was a small hallway that had a door on both its left and right sides, and Sam could make out some sort of conversation coming from the left one. On the left side of the room were a few empty benches. The Reader figured this doctor likely heard him come in and sat himself down on one of the benches. He put his cane in both his hands and tapped away at the floor as he waited, still trying to ignore the stage whisper-singing of Androbeles.

                “I’ll be out in a minute.” Came a gruff voice from the left door of the hallway.

                It wasn’t long until the door opened, but instead of the source of the voice, it was a small harp girl that exited the room. Her wings were turquoise in color, and her hair was strawberry in color, pulled back into a thin ponytail. She couldn’t have been more than seven, the Reader deduced. She looked up at Sam.

                “Hi!” She waved her wing.

                “Er, hello.” Sam looked at her wing when she waved it, and noticed the distinct lack of any cut feathers or incisions made upon the wing. Her wings were unclipped, which meant she must have been born here.

                “Your hood is big.”

                “Uh, thanks…”

                “Oh, please excuse her.” A voice said. Coming out of the same room was a harp that looked very similar to the girl, aside from the fact that she was taller and more matured. Her mother, most likely. A look at her wings revealed them to be clipped, unlike her daughter’s confirming the Reader’s theory.

                “It’s fine, I don’t mind.” Sam wasn’t exactly sure if having a child in the Downside was the smartest thing to do, but it was refreshing to see someone who was untouched by the hostility of the plane and the nihilism that usually came with it.

                The girl walked over to the door and stood up her toes to reach the handle, and swung it open.

                “Valomia!” her mother chastised. “What do you say?”

                “Oh!” She turned around to the door that she and her mother had walked out of and yelled out just as they exited the building. “Thanks, Dr. Oralech!”

                Sam smirked as he saw them exit. Cute, he hadn’t seen a child since-

                Wait.

                Oralech? He heard Androbeles’ singing stop as they both came to the same realization.

                _That Oralech?!_ They thought in unison.

                Sure enough, a large, familiar form exited the room the two harps had left. Four horns raised from his head, a broad physique, and white hair that came down his shoulders.  He still wore the orange uniform of his triumvirate with blue accents that he had worn during the Rites. “Don’t mention it.” He said, marking something down on a clipboard he was carrying. He headed into the room and looked up at the Reader, who was completely still on the bench. Their eyes met.

                Sam gulped. He hadn’t been alone with Oralech since their little meeting in the Blackwagon, and now there were no rules in any books that forbade him from snapping him in half like a twig, which the Reader had a feeling they both knew he could do very easily. The demon’s face was hard to read, his expression neutral as his orange eyes bore into the Reader’s own green orbs. Sam resisted every urge in his body to cower away or twitch in fear, trying to give his best attempt at remaining as outwardly calm as possible.

                “I didn’t expect to see you here.” The demon spoke, breaking the silence.

                “Uh, yeah, small world.”

                Sam nervously tapped his fingers against the bench’s armrest as the demon studied him. While Oralech did give up his freedom at the Fall of Soliam, the Reader would hardly have taken the action as a sign of acquaintance, much less friendship. He sensed some sort of understanding between himself and the demon and hoped it would be enough to get him through this unexpected doctor’s appointment. Sam had some very important questions for Almer after he got out of here. _If_ he got out, that is.

                Oralech grunted, done with looking the Reader up and down, and walked over to his desk. His towering frame was disproportionate to the small wooden chair he sat on. The demon reached into a drawer in the desk, pulling out a small inkwell and quill. The doctor jotted some notes down, his eyes focused solely on the rough parchment that he was writing upon. “Have you just come here to taunt me or is there any validity to your visit?”

                “N-no, I didn’t come here to taunt you.” Sam stammered. “I came here to see a doctor, but I didn’t expect it to be you.”

                Oralech didn’t reply. It was only after a few more seconds of the rough sound of the quill’s tip scratching against the parchment did he speak again.  “There wasn’t anyone else?”

                “I haven’t heard of any other doctors offering service in the Downside.”

                More scratching sounds. Androbeles was being strangely silent. The Reader thought he may have heard Oralech stifle a sigh but wasn’t sure. “What is your problem, then?”

                Sam was about to speak but stopped himself. Sandra had wanted him to go get his head checked, more or less, but now that they both knew what the problem was, he wasn’t sure. Androbeles was able to force himself into the Reader’s mind through his powers as a Reader, so it wasn’t something that could be likely be fixed physically. Sam also had a feeling that telling the demon “Hey, your old friend who you used to travel with and was in the Rites with is now in my mind! He can speak to me but you can’t hear him! I’m totally not crazy!” may be a bit unwise.

                _You best keep our little secret to yourself, Reader, lest you want the demon to think you a loon._

_You’ve been awfully quiet._ Sam mentally retorted.

Androbeles didn’t respond.

                “Ahem.”

                The Reader looked up. Oralech had stopped writing and was looking at his new cloaked patient expectantly.

                _Probably best to lie and try to test what he knows,_ Sam decided.

                “Just a check-up of sorts. My bad leg has been giving me trouble ever since I uh… tripped.” The Reader lightly moved his right leg.

                Oralech stared at him for a few more uncomfortable seconds before rising to his full imposing height. “Follow me to the examination room.”

                Sam stood up and trailed behind the tall man. He was led into that same room the two harps had come out of. In the room’s center lied a wooden table covered with a thin white sheet, along with a small table to the side that had a small bag made of howlerhide. Oralech gestured to the table. “Sit down and wait here.”

                The Reader did exactly that, watching as Oralech exited the room. He saw him go into the door directly across from the one he had just entered, before the demon closed it. Sam was unable to make out what was happening in the room but could barely make out the trickling of water. Oralech returned momentarily, after retrieving his clipboard and writing utensils from his desk. “You were the Nightwings’ Reader.” It sounded more like a statement than a question.

                “Yes…”

                The horned man outstretched a gray hand, offering the clipboard to Sam. “Then fill it out yourself.”

                The Reader took the clipboard, and Oralech also gave him the inkwell and quill. Sam had to make sure to ensure no ink was dripping from the feathered tool before writing with it, as he was not sitting at a desk, but took the utensil to the parchment and read the paper before him. It was a form, obviously printed by some sort of stamping-press, with information meant to be filled in blank boxes. All of it was just basic patient information, like name, age, race, and medical history.

                _Huh. I didn’t know Oralech could read._ Sam thought.

                If the local Archjustice had any comment, he kept it to himself. Sam didn’t dare dwell on his forced companion’s silence out of fear of provoking another hellacious tune. It was a minute before Sam returned the clipboard and utensils to the demon.

                Oralech took the clipboard and read over it. “You didn’t write your surname.”

                “It’s a bit of a mouthful.”

                “You’re older than I thought.”

                Sam didn’t respond. He didn’t think he looked much younger than any other twenty-four year-old’s he had met.

                Oralech continued examining the clipboard. “Your writing.”

                “…what about it?”

                “It flows. Like Volfred’s.”

                “Oh, you mean its corvin.”

                The demon’s eyes met the Reader and simply blinked in response.

                “I-It’s a form of penmanship, used to be popular in the imperial age. By connecting the letters you can write both faster and fancier. Volfred taught me it.”

                Oralech didn’t bother replying, responding instead by simply placing the clipboard by the bag along with the utensils. “Disrobe.”

                Sam swallowed. “Excuse me?”

                Oralech sighed, like he had repeated this dozens of times. “There are many infections and ailments in the Downside that can sometimes take place in more unseen locations. In order for me to make sure you’re healthy, you have to disrobe to your undergarments.”

                _I hope you’re not shy, Reader._

_Oh, shut up._

                Doing his best to ignore Androbeles’ vocal return, Sam removed his cloak and hesitantly reached up to remove his shirt. “Is this really necessary?”

                “If you want to ensure you won’t end up killed by a parasite or infection in a few weeks, then yes.”

                Sam sighed and slowly removed his shirt, his eyes catching the sight of his torso. The Reader’s chest was absolutely covered in scars, from the abdomen to the height of his collarbone. All caused by the whip from his public lashing. As if a cherry on top, the black brand of the Hollow Star contrasted with the pinkish scars that surrounded it.  Sam quickly removed his trousers and looked away from the sight of his blemished body.

                The Reader didn’t like looking at his scars. He wasn’t ashamed of them, Sam knew full well that it wasn’t his fault for receiving them. But, unlike some boisterous soldiers he had encountered earlier in his life, nor was he proud of them. He saw no reason for the myriad of old wounds all across his chest and back to be any reason for boast. But still, Sam was perceived as weak all his life, and he didn’t want people seeing his scars and thinking him even weaker. He fought the urge to cross his arms in an attempt to conceal what little he could as Oralech reached into his bag to retrieve some tools.

                To the doctor’s credit, he didn’t flinch at all once seeing Sam’s damaged body, only examining them closer. He put on a set of white gloves from inside the bag and placed a finger over the black brand. “Have any of your scars given you any trouble? Become yellowish or swollen?”

                “No.”

                “Do they hurt upon contact?” He poked the brand.

                “No.”

                Oralech gave a sort of half-nod, before standing up and circling around the Reader’s back. “Arms up.”

                Sam followed his instructions. His mind raced for topics to make the situation any less awkward. “So… where did you get all these supplies?”

                “Volfred.”

                “Oh, you two keep in touch?”

                “Sometimes.”

                “That’s good.”

                Oralech stayed silent as he continued his work. The Reader wasn’t exactly super talkative, but even he could carry a conversation better than this.

                _Don’t blame yourself, Reader._ Androbeles said. _He never was a good conversationalist._

                _I think that’s the first time you said something to me that wasn’t some form of insult or patronization._

_Don’t get used to it._

                “Your leg.” Sam was brought out of his mental conversation by the demon. “Can you still feel everything connected to it?”

                “I believe so.”

                The demon doctor tested the reflex of the Reader’s right leg with a small hammer regardless. For a badly injured limb, it actually looked quite normal, aside from the surgical stars surrounding the knee, which was shifted a little more rightward than it would be on a normal leg.

                 “How was it injured?”

                Sam had lived with his impairment for most of his life and was far more accepting of it than his more recent injuries. “Harp bombing run. Caused a cabinet to fall on it.”

                “How long ago was that?”

                “About …eighteen years, I think.”

                Oralech, to no surprise of the Reader, didn’t respond and merely continued further examination and questions.

                

* * *

 

                Sam clipped the clasp of his cloak. “Um, thank you, Oralech.”

                The doctor grunted in response as the two exited the examination room, heading back to the entry area. 

                The Reader had tried to pry and see if Oralech had any sort of information regarding Readers or strangers coming down the river but had only received small, one-note disconfirmations and small shrugs. He fought the urge to sigh. “Do I owe you anything?”

                “No.”

                The demon sat down at his desk and began writing on another piece of parchment. Sam nervously tapped his cane on the wooden floor. “So that’s it? No problems?”

                “None that I could find. You seem healthy, if a bit underweight, but I suppose that’s normal here. More exercise would be an improvement.”

                “It’s a bit hard to exercise when you can hardly walk.”

                “I knew a man who had both his legs blown off on the Bloodborder. Could lift more than anyone else I’ve ever met.” Oralech retorted. “There’s never an excuse for not exercising.”

                Sam just blinked as the demon continued writing whatever notes he was currently occupied with.

                _You’re lucky he stopped there,_ the voice of Androbeles chimed in. _He would go on about apples and nutrient regimens._

                _Oh, that reminds me!_ Sam thought, the Archjustice’s comment bringing back a thought from earlier. “So... you’re literate?”

                “Somewhat.”

                “Did Volfred teach you that as well?” Sam felt something tingle in the back of his head, but it was cut off by Oralech’s response.

                “No.”

                “Oh, was it Brighton?” The Reader winced as he felt the tingle suddenly transform into a sharp pain that pierced his skull like a sudden migraine. He bit his tongue to avoid groaning in pain.

                Oralech looked up, setting his quill down so that its tip rested on the edge of the inkwell. “Volfred told you about him?”

                “Y-yeah, he told me.” The pain suddenly disappeared. Sam had a pretty good idea of what caused it, though, but didn’t want to dwell on it in fear of Androbeles launching a second psychic attack. Perhaps it was a touchy subject.

                The demon looked at him for a second more before returning to his paperwork. “Yes. It was Brighton who taught me to read.”

                                “Oh.” The Reader brought a hand up to rub the back of his head in an effort to massage the area where his cranium felt like it was going to burst. “Well, thank you again.” He turned to leave.

                “Goodbye, Sam.”

The Reader’s hand was on the doorknob when he was stopped by the demon’s words. _Guess I’m not “the Shadow” anymore._ Hoping this meant that whatever relationship was between the two was bettered, Sam exited the building.

                

* * *

 

                The Hollow Star.

                Also known as the Reader’s Brand, the Hollow Star is what all those who are charged with the crime of literacy have imprinted onto their body via a branding iron. Since literacy was not permitted within the Commonwealth, the origins of the symbol have been more or less lost in time. Many in the Commonwealth knew not what it really meant, only that it was a sign of literacy: an act comparable to treason, and thus those who bore its black mark were to be avoided.

                Those who have managed to uncover and decipher the text from old, forbidden tomes know its true source.

                The belief of Astralism stretches back from almost as long as when some harps decided to shed their wings, and even in the modern Sahrian Union it still holds status as the most common religion practiced by the populace, seconded only by worship of the Eight Scribes, which is roughly followed by one of every ten citizens. In its practice of worshipping the stars, chief theologians in the imperial days deciphered omens and portents from the celestial entities. The shooting star was a sign of prosperity and fertility, especially to farmers and others who worked in agriculture. The rare presence of an eight-pointed star foreshadowed a harsh change, like a long winter or harsh summer. But no symbol was as dreaded and inauspicious as the Hollow Star.

                A symbol of plague, a forewarning of disaster; the Hollow Star was despised as a harbinger of misfortune. It looked like any normal five-pointed star, but its body was a void of black in place of the vibrant colors the astral entities usually held.  And after every appearance, death and misery followed.

Thus it was forbidden in the Astralist Sahrian Empire to _ever_ draw, depict, or otherwise recreate the unholy emblem. In the late days of the Empire, when Soliam Murr still reigned, it is said that some of the minor kingdoms at risk of subjugation by the empire would attempt to use this taboo as a psychological weapon in warfare in their efforts to avoid conquest. The northern princedom of Asgrim, for example, had their soldiers paint their shields with the symbol. Unfortunately for them, that only angered the legions of Gol Golathanian, who brought them to heel in a war that lasted less than a month.

Any who was charged in literacy would be branded with the symbol at the end of the public lashing ceremony. The harsh treatment of the literate served as a warning to those who would attempt to gain the skill, and as a punishment to those who did. The punishment of being a Reader was worse than that of high treason, and while there are some who were exiled who were literate, very few were exiled for _being_ literate. Almost all Readers kept their skill a secret, and those who failed paid a terrible price.

Lector was one of the latter.

In summary, the Hollow Star was, for want of a better description, a symbol of antithesis to everything the Commonwealth held dear. Which is why Lector was spending his time painting it into the back of his coat.

“I’ve never seen you with your coat off before.” A voice said from his side.

The convict didn’t bother responding to the harp, focusing instead on ensuring that his recreation of the symbol was as accurate as possible. The white color he was using contrasted well with his dark grey coat, which he had laid flat on the boards of the blackwagon.

                He saw her cross her crimson wings out of the corner of his eye, her avian body leaned against the wall next to the doorframe. “Whadd’ya painting?”

                “Aren’t you supposed to be piloting the wagon?”

                “Relax, the drive-imps are stupid but smart enough to make sure we don’t crash. So, whadd’ya painting?”

                Continuing to ignore her, Lector finished the final touches on his coat’s new addition and stood up, letting the paint dry as he dropped the brush into an empty jar.

                “Wow, aren’t you just a ray of sunshine?” The woman’s words, to the surprise of neither of the two, were ignored as Lector walked past her and into the main room of the wagon. The harp trailed behind him, uncrossing her wings. “Does this have something to do with that guy from earlier?”

                Lector turned to face the woman. Her skin was white like ivory, and mostly concealed by her talon ace uniform: a light gray double-breasted jacket that was tight to her torso to permit flight, and similarly tight black trousers she wore on her legs, ending just above her avian feet, where all could see her sharpened talons. Her face was heart-shaped, and deep brown eyes accentuated her black bob cut, the dark locks neatly falling around her head.  The woman stood at about average height for a harp, meaning the man before her easily dwarfed her in size. She didn’t seem bothered by that. “You seemed quite obsessed with him. Does wittle Wector have a cwush?”

                The convict snorted and pulled down the collar of the thick black wool shirt he was wearing, showcasing the black star branded onto his chest. Hints of pink scars against pale flesh could be seen around it. “He and I share the same brand.”

                She squinted her eyes, leaning in to examine the symbol. “Is that supposed to mean something?”

                “I wouldn’t expect you to understand.”

                Now it was her turn to snort. “Right, because you _nomadii_ are just so much smarter than us harps.” She jumped up onto a nearby table, sitting on it and swinging her feet back and forth. She nudged the unconscious form of Androbeles with her foot, who had been placed in the chair and was now slumped over. “Hey, is this guy even alive? You think he would’ve woken up by now.”

                “His retrieval is my job, not yours. Worry about yourself.”

                “Oh, like there’s anything _I_ have to worry about!” The harp cocked a grin. “There isn’t a single damn place on the Bloodborder there where my name isn’t known. But what bothers me is this whole job.” Her cocky smirk quickly turned into an agitated frown. “How come I had to be the one to talk to the Commandant?”

                “You seem to have fared well enough.” Lector slowly made his way throughout the wagon. It was loaded equipment that could prove useful to them, and the convict had already made use of the paint the previous occupants had left. “I take it she was agreeable?”

                “It’s not like we gave her much of a choice.”

                The tall man arrived at a small end table which held a few copies of the Book of Rites. He opened one and began to flip through it with gloved fingers. “You didn’t seem to have any problems getting the blackwagon, either.”

                “It’s not like they were even protecting it!” The harp threw her wings up. “The wyrms just flat-out abandoned it in the middle of the sea! On some deserted island, no less!”

                “I don’t see the issue.”

                “The issue is that my talents aren’t being put to use! There’s one reason I signed up for this whole gig,” The harp said, sliding one of her feet into the space between the seat and the back of one of the chairs placed by the table. In a quick movement, she beat her wings, generating some lift as she ascended into the air with the table. She then quickly slid her avian foot out of its hold, causing the seat to fly upwards, and in a quick airborne flip, brought down her foot with its talons outstretched. A sharp crack radiated throughout the cabin, and the pieces of wood and splinters of timber that fell down in a shower where the chair once was. The harp landed gracefully, both her feet hitting the ground at the same time. “And that was to claw, to pierce, to _fight!_ And instead, Makadon has me stealing wagons and blackmailing public officials.”

                “You’ll get your wish soon enough. Trust in Makadon.”

                The talon ace groaned and took her place back on the table, resuming the swinging of her legs. She glanced over at Lector, who seemed to be reading from the book in his hands. She tried but failed to make out the man’s eyes under his large goggles. “Can you even see out of those things?”

                “Yes.”

                “Don’t you get hot under all of those clothes?”

                “No.”

                “Why do you wear that big hat?”

                “Maybe it blocks out the sun. Maybe I’m crazy. Maybe I just think it looks cool. Is there a point to these questions?”

                “Just trying to get to know you, _nomadii_.” the harp sighed, blowing a stray lock of hair out of her face. “They teach us as fledglings in flight school to familiarize yourself with your comrades. Since we’re working together I figured I might try that, but I don’t even know anything about you, and you don’t seem too keen changing that anytime soon.”

                “But I know about you, Vilay.” Lector had been staring at the same page for some time now, but his face didn’t move an inch away from its attention on the book. “I know you graduated top of your class. I know you led operations that nearly brought the Commonwealth war effort to its knees. I know are one of eight women to be ever awarded the White Wing.”

                He saw that Vilay had a grin spread across her face once more. “And?”

                “And that you were dishonorably discharged for attacking a Union patrol after the Scribes’ Return.” His goggled eyes looked over to the harp, his words somehow clear from under the silver fur scarf he wore. “How did it feel? Did you enjoy the society that held you up as a hero turning on you? Did you like how the government that backed you betrayed you faster than any ace could ever fly? Did you savor the feeling of being unable to do the one thing in life you love?”

                Her grin turned into a grimace, her eyes gaining a dark glint to them. “What are you trying to say?” She continued when Lector didn’t respond. “What does any of that have to do with anything?”

                “Nothing at all.” His eyes turned back to the Book.

                It only took a few moments for the irony to dawn on Vilay. She groaned, rolled her eyes, and stormed off into the wagon’s other room. “You can pilot from here on out.”

                It was only a few more seconds before her voice rang out again. “And your hat doesn’t look cool. It looks stupid!”

                “Noted.”

* * *

 

                Sam slowly crept around another tent, ensuring that no one was watching him. Once he was sure he was still unseen, he crossed the open space of the camp as fast as a man with a cane could walk and ducked into a larger tent, his eyes being met with the familiar belongings of Barker Ashpaw.

                _Phew, he didn’t see me._

                _Yes, Reader, you are quite adept at assuming the role of a vermin skulking around. I’m glad we can agree on that._

                Ignoring his mental ride-along partner, Sam examined the room. Barker’s tent was as unorganized as anyone would think it would be, supplies of all sorts lying everywhere. A small blanket spread out in the corner apparently served as the cur’s bed. He quickly began sifting through the supplies, moving spare uniforms, strange talismans, and anything unrelated out of his way.

                _I know that it has to be around here somewhere…_

                “OI! READAH!”

                _Uh oh._

The familiar jingle of a chain confirmed Barker’s presence, the Reader turning around to see the black cur looking up at him with a very displeased look on his face.

                ”Uh, hi Barker, I’m just-“

                “I don’t give a shite! Where were you last night?!”

                Sam blinked, confused. What could he be talking about?-

                Oh. Supper duty.

                _Shit._

“I don’t think you’d believe me if I told you.”

                Barker snorted. “Mate, you best not be makin’ excuses. I wont the full story, and it betta’ be a damn good one!”

                Sam gulped, wiping some sweat from his forehead. “Well, it all started when we went to the giant ball of poop…”               

* * *

 

                “…and he said I was fine, so we decided to head back.”

                Barker stared up at the Reader, his expression unreadable. “So wot you’re sayin’, is that da bloody Archjustice Andropees-“

                _ANDRO-“BELES!”_ Sam winced from the loud shout that originated in his mind, holding his head with his free hand.

                “-da ninth was somehow brought down here, and ‘den some bloke with a big hat kidnapped him, and ran off with some harp into the sunset?”

                “Well I think he was kidnapped _before_ he came into the Downside, I don’t see how else he could have gotten here, but yeah, pretty much.”

                The air in the tent was tense and the all-encompassing desert heat wasn’t helping relax the Reader’s nerves. Sam swallowed nervously as he saw Barker mentally contemplate the bizarre situation.

                “Eh, I believe it.”

                “Wait, really?”

                “But that don’t excuse you runnin’ off and shirkin ya duties!”

                “I’m really sorry about that! If I knew I was going to be out all day, I would’ve told you.”

                The cur sighed, his red mohawk gently swaying in the hot breeze that came in through the tent. “S’pose you couldn’t ‘ave known. I forgive ya, but tell me if ya gonna run off again when you have supper duty!”

                “Right!” Sam promised. He breathed a sigh of relief. He was lucky that Barker was far more forgiving than he could seem.  Unfortunately, he didn’t think that the cur would be so forgiving about what he was going to tell him next. “So, there was actually something I needed…”

                “Hm?” Barker’s ear twitched.

                “Well, I wanted to head over to Big Bertrude’s-“

                “Dat old bog-crone?”

                “Yes, her. She’s usually familiar with what’s happening in the Downside, so I thought we should see if she knew anything. But it’s been a while since I’ve been to her encampment, so I was looking for your map.”

                “Dat old thing? Think I got it ‘round somewhere, ya check under the matt?” He jerked his head toward the blanket in the corner.

                Sam walked over and, carefully kneeling down with his good leg, picked up the blanket. Sure enough, there was a rolled up piece of parchment under the comforter. The Reader grabbed it and stood back up. Unrolling the map revealed its contents to be true: a complete map of the Downside, each celestial landmark mapped and each region named. “Wow, I didn’t expect such a detailed map. Thanks, Barker.”

                “Don’t mention it mate, so long as ya give It back when ya done.”

                _This cur’s accent is insufferable, Reader. Muzzle him, would you?_

                Ignoring Androbeles, Sam folded the map back up, stuffing it in a pocket concealed by his cloak. “Alright, I’ll hopefully be seeing you soon, bye-“

                “Wait a minute. You’re leavin’ now?”

                “…yes.”

                “Wot!” The cur’s ears perked up, his teeth bared as his anger returned. “How are ya gonna make up suppah duty if you run off?”

                “It would also be nice if you could… spare us some food for the trip.”

                The cur’s jaw dropped, unable to believe what he was hearing.

                “I’ll cook supper for a whole week when I get back.” Sam promised.

                Barker squinted.

                “Two weeks!”

                “Damn right you will.” The black cur snorted. “None of dat shite the others cook taste like the stew you make.”

                It was from watching Hedwyn that the Reader had learned the basics of cooking with what was available in the Downside, and Sam couldn’t help but feel more and more grateful for the questions he had asked the man before he was liberated. Though sometimes it would seem that the skills he had picked up on were more of a curse than a blessing.

                “Well, out ya go! Got an adventure or waitin’ for ya, right? Don’t come back ‘til ya ready to cook!”

* * *

                Sam closed the door to the Blackwagon, walked over to the nearest chair and collapsed in it with a sigh.

                “Scraaa-hi?” A voice asked.

                The Reader turned to the sound’s source, seeing Ti’zo looking at him inquisitively from his nest. “Nothing, I just think I may have made a deal I’m going to regret down the line.”

                _Oh dear! Actual labor! The thought of it must terrify you, Reader._

                The young man just groaned, holding his head in his hands.

                “You’re back.” Almer walked in from the common room. “Did you find a map?”

                “Yes,” Sam answered, retrieving the folded piece of parchment from the folds of his clothing and putting it on the table.  “I think I can pinpoint where Big Bertrude’s camp is. It’ll take us until nightfall to reach it, maybe even more. Did your father teach you how to pilot the wagon?”

                “Yes, why?”

                “We should probably take shifts so I don’t pass out and drive us into the ground.”

                “Fair enough.” The boy answered. “The sooner we find out-“

                A knocking sound interrupted Almer, the banging of something rapping against the Blackwagon’s wooden door repeating thrice. He looked over to the Reader. “Expecting company?”

                “Barker said he’d send someone with food for our trip,” Sam stood up and walked over to the door. “I figured we- or, most of us would rather _not_ eat silt porridge.”

                Almer mumbled something under his breath, but didn’t make any further comment. The Reader turned the doorknob and pulled open the door, revealing a white-haired brown-feathered harp holding moderately sized sack between her talons. She was currently flying just a hair off of the ground, and wearing a light white shirt under a brown jacket and similarly colored pants that had some dust and sand stuck to them.

                “Hello!” Shanna greeted. “Mind if I come in? This thing is pretty heavy.”

                “Oh, go ahead.” Sam moved out of the way, allowing the harp to duck into the cabin and drop the sack of food onto the floor. Landing shortly after, Shanna stretched her wings before turning to the cloaked man. “That’s quite a bit of food. Expecting a long trip?”

                “Not really, but it doesn’t hurt to be prepared.” The Reader answered. Almer wordlessly made his way over to the sack and untied the string around it, peering in. He showcased the food to Sam as well. It was an assortment of herbs, dried meats, and even some fist-sized dead bugs. Nothing appetizing, never in the Downside, but anyone who wished to survive in the hostile plane had to learn not to be picky with their meals.

                “Thanks for dropping the food by, Shanna.” Sam took his place back in the seat he was before, thankful to be off his feet once more. “Tell Barker I’m grateful, please.” He leaned his head back off the chair.

                “Oh, he already told me about the whole deal you two made.” The harp said. “And I couldn’t help but overhear your little talk about his holiness Androbeles IX and his appearance in the Downside.”

                Sam’s eyes met hers from under his hood, his expression confused. “W-“

                Shanna cut him off. “And I was thinking that two weeks of supper duty is a lot, and that you might appreciate some… assistance.”

                The Reader didn’t bother answering, knowing there was some sort of catch, and waited for her to continue.

                The harp swallowed when she saw Sam’s lack of response but continued on. “So I was thinking that maybe if you let me come with you, we could each do a week instead.”

                The answer came out faster than the harp was likely expecting. “No.”

                “Come on, why not?”

                “It’s too dangerous.” Sam answered. “Besides, not that I want to cause offense, but this doesn’t really have anything to do with you.”

                “Oh, like it has anything to do with you.” Shanna crossed her brown wings, her amber eyes narrowing in agitation.

                “We were the ones who were there, not you, harp.” Almer spoke up, his arms crossing in a pose that mirrored the girl’s. “Besides, why do you want to come along anyway? And what’s supper duty?”

                “That’s whoever’s in charge of cooking for the evening.” The harp answered.  “All the little cliques in this camp tend to eat together, and we figured that us riteball players should eat together so we don’t all have to cook meals, but that means someone has cook enough for like, eight of us. So we rotate who does it.”

                “What’s riteball?”

                “I’ll tell you later.” The Reader said, his eyes still focused on Shanna. “But you realize this is just a short journey, right? Why do you want to join us?”

                “Because everything else is so damn boring!” She pointed her wing out the door to the bleak sands dotted with tents. “Besides riteball there’s _nothing_ to do, and the only interesting thing that happened down here ended before I even found out about it!”

                “So you want to come along because you think it’ll be fun?” Sam sighed, running a hand through his hair causing his hood to fall back a bit revealing his pale, tired features.

                “Is there anything wrong with that? It’s not like any of us here have anything better to do.”

                The Reader pondered that. She wasn’t wrong, but he felt like having someone join them for the fun of it when he possibly could’ve been killed the night before would be reckless. He straightened his posture and tried to blink the drowsiness out of his eyes before he answered. “Shanna, we don’t know what we’re dealing with here. This isn’t a game, you could get hurt.”

                “Hurt?” The Reader’s words seemed to amuse the harp, who let out a chuckle. “’Not that I want to cause offense,’” she mocked, “but I’m quite sure neither of you have any sort of military experience.”

                That was probably obvious given Sam’s disability and Almer’s young age, he figured. “And you do?”

                “14th Sentinel Regiment, served as a-look, that’s not the point. The point is that I can take care of myself, and if something bad does happen, I could help out. I get to finally do something other than sit in this star-forsaken desert waiting for the next riteball game, and you get the bonus of my lovely company and all that it entails. Seems like a win-win situation to me.”

                _She does have a point_ … Sam reckoned.

                _Reader, I hope you’re not actually considering bringing this harp along._

_Why not?_ The Reader responded. He knew it likely wasn’t a very good idea to entertain the self-aware voice in his head, but was curious as to Androbeles’ argument other than pure contrarianism against all of his decisions.

                _All who serve in the ranks of the Highwing Remannts do so only to shed blood. Their whole society exists soley to strike out against the Commonwealth and everything it stands for. Besides, this harp in particular seems far too impulsive to be put in a trustworthy position. She’ll probably make off with your things whilst you slumber._

_If she wanted to steal from me, she’s had plenty of chances already. And the Highwings conscript their young just as the Commonwealth did, she likely didn’t have a choice in her service._

_You know what?_ Androbeles sounded like he had lost an argument. _Fine. Trust the harp. Just don’t expect me to quell my laughter when you awaken to talons around your neck._

                _Why would she wait for me to wake up if she was going to kill me?_

                _Bah! I’m not listening to this drivel any longer._ The Archjustice somehow modified his voice inside the Reader’s head as if to make it sound far away. _Enjoy your foolishness. I’ll be elsewhere._

_You mean still in my head?_

_I mean the inner recesses of your mind, where all your good ideas and intelligent thoughts are. Let’s have a look, shall we?_ The Reader heard the sound of a door opening. _Ah yes, here we are. Hm, what’s this? An empty abyss of nothingness?_

“Er, Reader?” A feathery wing was waving in front of his eyes.

                Sam blinked a few times, brought out of his mental conversation. “Yes, what is it?”

                “So… can I come along?”

“She is right about this whole affair being intriguing,” Almer admitted. “I have to admit, I wasn’t looking forward to trudging across every waste of the Downside for Father’s pilgrimage, so I can see the appeal of looking for something to do.”

The Reader remembered discussing the matter with the boy on their way back to Barker’s camp. While Almer did want to complete the task his father had given him, he also said that he would come along if only to satisfy his curiosity. Sam felt like there may have been something more that motivated the son of Dalbert Oldheart, but refrained from prying further.

                “What about you, Ti’zo? What do you think?”

                “Screee-hiI!” The imp thought she was trust-worthy enough, and that they could use all the help they could get, especially if things got dangerous like they almost did in the Sandfolds.

                “We are just heading over to Big Bertrude’s you know.” Sam replied. “Not really a daring endeavor.

                “Kraaa-hoo?”

                Sam had to admit that Ti’zo had a point. Regardless of whether or not they actually found out more information, they likely weren’t going to just dismiss whatever sort of mystery was unfolding before them.

                The Reader let out a long, resigned sigh, before using his cane so stand himself up. “Alright, that pretty much settles it. Welcome aboard.”

                Shanna’s eyes widened, her voice quivering with anticipation. “Really?”

                “I just need to run it by one other person first. She’ll be…. hesitant, but I don’t think she’ll be _too_ against your company.” Sam walked over to the orb which he had left on the table next to the Book of Rites. He placed his hand against the green sphere, prompting a green swirl of light to illuminate the cabin, the ethereal form of Sandra appearing after its departure.

                The blind woman looked like she was about to say something but stopped. Her nose scrunched up and her lips twitched. “Why do I sense even _more_ idiocy?”

                Just then a shriek pierced the ears of everyone in the cabin. Shanna was backed up against the wagon’s wall, her face one of utter terror. She pointed a wing in Sandra’s direction. “Ghost!”

                The blind assassin’s ever-present frown deepened. “Listen here, _girl…_ ”          

* * *

 

                                And with only twenty more minutes of deliberation, Shanna was welcomed aboard the Blackwagon. Unlike Almer, she only brought a moderately-sized satchel containing her personal belongings with her. Introductions were made, and by the end of the hour the Reader and those that were with him set off northward to Big Bertrude’s. Almer had decided to take the first shift and the Reader the second. Thankfully Almer was able to read the map and knew the general layout of the Downside from his time during the Rites, making there be no need for any navigation. Sam had opted to use his break from piloting to take a short nap.

                The Reader stirred when he felt something moving him. His eyes cracked open to reveal the form of Ti’zo sitting on his knee. Sam was laid on his back on top of his bedroll, with Sandra’s orb still held between his hands. The imp chirped at him. “Kraaaa-hi!”

                “Yeah, I’m up. Just give me a moment.” Sam reached for his cane and managed to muster enough strength to pull himself up and off of the floor, Ti’zo flying off of him and heading back into the other room. Placing Sandra back under his cloak, he made his way into the wagon’s main cabin, seeing Almer blinking tiredly at the controls. Shanna was sitting at the table looking through the Book of Rites again, and peered up at him when he entered. The harp offered a smile and small wave which the Reader returned. Sam directed his attention back to Almer. “You’re done?”

                “My legs are killing me.” He looked over to Sam. “I’m done.” The teenager released the flight controls, swapping with the Reader. The boy then made his way over to the table before sitting down at one of the chairs, letting out a large sigh. Shanna said something to him and the two began to engage in conversation.

                Sam looked out of the window. The sun had made its way under the horizon, leaving the world cast in a blanket of darkness, with no stars to shine and illuminate the earth. He heard the fluttering of wings and saw Ti’zo descend from his nest and land on the staircase to the Reader’s right.

                The two made small talk as the time passed. Almer eventually receded into the common room for some rest himself, leaving only the three (or four, if you count phantasmal assassins) in the cabin. It was when multiple hours had passed and Sam began feeling sleep pull at him once more did he hear the voice of Androbeles echo through his mind.

                _Reader._

                Sam pretended he didn’t hear anything, continuing on as he was.

                _Reader! Do not try to ignore me!_

The Reader did not listen to the Archjustice’s advice.

                _Reader!_ Sam saw the white robes of the theocrat circle around from behind him and stand before him, his masked form holding his hands on his hips.

                The Reader groaned. _What is it?_

_I think I’ve spotted our destination. Look!_ Androbeles pointed with his psychically-constructed finger to the window.

                _That’s an acid pit._

_Are you sure? Hmm…_ The Archjustice brought a hand to his masked chin, rubbing it thoughtfully. _Perhaps you should go down and check. A sharp nosedive should do the trick._

_Did you get exiled because you couldn’t shut up, or was that more of a thing you developed later on?_ Sam was nearing his wit’s end with the Archjustice’s constant taunting and endless snide comments. It had only been one day and the Reader felt like he was going to throw himself out of the wagon if he had to keep dealing with this annoyance.

                _It would make sense that an invertebrate cripple like you would be opposed to the act of speaking._ Androbeles chuckled. _I remember your sentencing. You sat there like a sick pup, eyes to the ground while I condemned you to the river._

Sam felt himself gripping the handholds tighter.

_No reply?_ _I suppose I should expect as much from someone who allows themselves to be used as a tool by everyone they meet. First you let the Nightwings use you so that they could gain their freedom-_

_They didn’t use me._

_Didn’t they?_ Androbeles’s form crossed his arms and leaned against the wall by the window. _You know, while I was imprisoned in my home I used what contacts I still had to inform myself of the events occurring around the “Union,”_ he made air quotes before returning his arms to being crossed, _and specifically, the ones who had destroyed our merciful Commonwealth. Do you know what they’ve been up to?_ Sam was about to reply but Androbeles cut him off. _Hedwyn proposed to some harp girl. I suppose desertion wasn’t enough of a betrayal to his country to satisfy him. The moon-touched one, Fae, is attending lessons on basic literature. Rukey has reopened whatever businesses he had, and seems to be enjoying wide success. Gilman was in town quite recently to give a lecture on his version of events that occurred in the Downside.  Pamitha floats between the Highwing Remnants and the Union like she has nothing better to do in some naïve attempt at peace. Jodariel acts as an advisor to the Capital Guard and gives counsel to the prime minister. And that same prime minister, Volfred, was recently invited to a banquet by some harp aristocrat in further blind sighted attempts at peace._

_Good._ Sam responded. _I’m glad that they’re enjoying they’re freedom._

_Good?!_ The Archjustice’s arms fell to his sides as he marched up to the Reader. _Does it feel good to know that your friends right now are celebrating your stupidity? That your precious Volfred is, as we speak, is sipping tea and laughing at how easy it was to manipulate you? That, in a few kind words and warm gestures, he tricked you into putting him into a place of power?_

_That was never what the Plan was about!_

_Wasn’t it? Volfred Sandalwood now sits at the highest office in the nation. The same Volfred who you gave your freedom so that he could have his. You think this no coincidence? Do you know what happens when a regime change occurs, Reader?_ Androbeles was close now, his robed body no more than a foot away from Sam’s. _As peaceful as it may be, there is always conflict. How many people do you think lost their positions? How many were ostracized by the radicals? How many thrown into prison for merely doing what they were told? How many lives did you destroy just so Volfred could have his throne?_

_The Plan was bigger than Volfred, bigger than you!_ Sam’s knuckles had turned white with the force he was applying to the piloting controls now. _Stop acting like it was about something it wasn’t!_

_Do you know why exiles are chosen to lead, Reader? Why they are returned not in mere redemption but in glory? It is in the Rites than they learn humility, in the Book that they learn reality, and in the Scribes that they learn mercy! Contrary to what you believe, Reader, the Commonwealth was merciful!_

                _I-_ Androbeles cut him off.

                _Do you know just how stupid the average person is? Just how easily they accept what they’re told? You all of people should know this considering the books you had in your possession were mostly concerning history. In the days of the empire, countless wars were waged for the sole sake of expanding borders, of adding to the glory of the Sahrian Throne; the prestige of House Soliam. Once the first exiles returned through the Rites and brought about the Commonwealth, that all changed. People were brought together, not forced apart. The eight races were seen as one! Occupied territories became semi-sovereign states, war was waged only against the Highwing Remannts, who fought against the unity of peoples under a single banner, unable to believe that they kind would be better with others. No longer did soldiers have to die in pointless wars or power struggles between aristocrats vying for power! With the history of the past erased, unity was seen on levels never witnessed before!_

_And then you…_ Androbeles hand lashed out and pointed a finger squarely Sam’s direction, the digit mere centimeters from the Reader’s face. _You just couldn’t have it. Prosperity wasn’t enough for you, oh no. Surely a system of succession based on the trials one had to endure and the merit of doing so was inadequate to a glorified popularity contest! A system where any buffoon with a smile and money can gain power! And now, our new emperor, Volfred says that he will carry on the values of mercy that the Scribes promised. THAT HE WILL BE THE CHAMPION OF THE LESSONS THEY TAUGHT, OF THE COUNTRY YOU DESTROYED! ALL BECAUSE YOU JUST HAD TO READ YOUR FUCKING BOOKS!_

Sam inched back, his faze frozen in a mix of shock and anger. He had never heard the Archjustice so angry before it seemed almost surreal. There was so much he had to say, so much he had to rebuke: the exiles for harmless crimes, the endless hostility toward the Highwing Remnants, and the ferocity of the Commonwealth’s religious dogma. He opened his mouth to-

                “Reader!”

                Sam was brought out of his mental conversation by Shanna, who was now near the window and looking out it. The Reader looked back to where Androbeles was and saw he was gone. He turned his attention back to the harp, who seemed to bear and expression of worry on her face. “Yes?”

                “Look!”

                The Reader peered through the window. At first he saw only the dark gulches of Flagging Hands, blanketed in darkness by the night. But closer inspection revealed glimmers of light as what Shanna seemed to be talking about. Beacons of red and orange, sending spirals of black billowing into the featureless sky. The sight of camps and cabins could barely be made out among them.

                They had reached Big Bertrude’s, and it was burning.

                “Ti’zo, wake up Almer! I’m gonna try to set us down nearby.”

                “We’re going down there?” Shanna turned to him from the window.

                “I think it’s a bit too coincidental for this to be a house fire.”

                “So what, they were attacked or something?”

                “That’s the most likely possibility.”

                “And how, my lovely Reader, do you intend to defend yourself if there is a hostile presence?” Sandra had materialized beside him, her ghostly apparition looking in his direction.

                “I’ll… think of something.”

                “You’ll think of something?” Sandra’s frown grew deeper. “If you have no means to defend yourself then do not throw yourself into the fire.”

                “I have my talons, but I’m not sure that’ll be enough.” Shanna chimed in.

                “I have a knife.” Almer added, flourishing a small dagger he must have brought with him onto the Blackwagon.”

                “Kraaaaa-hii!” Ti’zo bared his teeth.

                Sandra turned to the Reader, her face exasperated. “This will be a disaster.”

                “We’ve been lucky so far.”

                “The Rites are not reality, Sam.”

                He offered her a small grin in reassurance. “We’ll be discreet about it then.”

                The assassin groaned. “Just be careful.”

                “Always.”

* * *

                The Reader set the Blackwagon down behind one of the multiple giant skull-like formations that dotted Flagging Hands. The four left the wagon and began approaching the flaming encampment, which they had landed roughly five minutes away from.

                The first thing he noticed when he got out was the chill. He had almost forgotten that, despite the omnipresent heat of Jomeur Valley, it was still firstmoon. He was surprised that it wasn’t snowing given the cold, and he saw all of his companions shiver as much as he did as they exited. Thankfully the cold seemed to have made the area, which the Reader remembered as a muddy, dank, sickly place, slightly less muddy, dank, and sickly. Slightly. At least the ground seemed to be dry, for the most part.

                As they neared the settlement, Sam could begin to make out shapes moving. But between the endless smoke and blazing fires, he couldn’t make out any closer features. He looked over to his harp companion. “Shanna, try to fly around and get a better look, but stay hidden. Ti’zo, go with her.”

                They both nodded and took off, leaving Sam and Almer together. Both of them got low as they neared the camp. The Reader motioned for them to hide behind a nearby rock, a rigid protrusion from the earth that was about neck-high, and they snuck over to it.

                Almer squinted his eyes. “I can hardly see anything, we need to get closer.”

                “No, that’s far too dangerous.”

                “Then what are we going to do?”

                Sam rapped his fingers against his cane as he thought. They could try to sneak closer by crawling-no, nowhere to hide and if they get caught they’d be done for. What about Shanna and Ti’zo? No, the Reader didn’t want to put them in any more danger then he’d put himself in. What to do, what to do…

                _Wait._ The Reader thought. _If Androbeles could launch himself into my mind, then perhaps…_

                ”I’m going to try something.” Sam said.

                “Okay… what are you going to try?”

                “Just make sure you stay here.” Sam closed his eyes, and began searching for any sort of mental presence. It was easier when they were right in front of him, but he should still be able to-

                He felt another presence: another mind, and began to reach out to it, to make his way in and see through-

                Sam blinked, and he was no longer behind the rock. Instead he was in the middle of the encampment, buildings on either side of him like some of those frontier towns he’d seen out west. In the middle of the wide “road” were a dozen bog-crones, all side-by-side with him, similarly kneeling down. A quick look at himself revealed him not to be in his own body, or to be a “him” at all. His body was one of a bog-crone, covered in some robe-like garb. Pale bluish skin covered the hands, which were topped with sharp, jagged fingernails. He felt rope tied taut around his wrists.

                Suddenly, eyes that weren’t his looked up, revealing what had grabbed the attention of all the crones, and what had bound them. Directly in front of them were a multitude of people, decked out in rough jackets and loose, patchwork clothing. There were six of them, all standing watch and scanning the bog-crones for any sign of resistance. They all seemed to be either nomads or savages, it was hard to tell from the distraction of the destructive blazes that surrounded them (not that all savages are distinguishable from nomads anyway). But what united them was the fact that they all bore weapons, two crossbows and the rest swords. Not the shining longswords of the Commonwealth army but slightly shorter, crude, and rougher blades clearly forged out of local materials.

                In the center of the armed group was a man decked out in yellow, his attire shining like gold from the firelight and his body turned away from the crones. His raiment was like a hooded robe, loose and falling down around his legs, only just revealing black leather boots that complimented the brown accents of his clothing. In his left hand lied one of the swords like the rest of the armed group possessed, but his right was wrapped around something. As the eyes Sam were peering through focused, he saw that his fingers were wrapped around the neck of a bog-crone, his digits constraining the woman mercilessly like a python. The bog-crone’s face was battered and bloodied, streams of red falling from her nose and cuts on several parts of her face. Her eyelid seemed to be bleeding as well, and would likely swell up later.

                The man delivered a sharp blow to the woman by slamming the butt of his sword into her face, causing her head to loll back, only kept upright by the strangulation of her attacker. He then kneed her gut, provoking a sharp gasp followed by a series of raspy coughs, breaths desperately and barely being made between them. With that he let her go, causing the woman to fall, keeling over. The sword-bearing figure turned around to face the lined up bog-crones, his face concealed by a white mask that seemed to perfectly fit his face as if it morphed around every feature and protrusion. The mask extended above the man’s head and the hood that covered it. Sam felt himself repulsed by what he was seeing, but contained himself, not risking breaking concentration and losing whatever sort of mental projection he was currently casting over this crone.

                _That’s a triumvirate raiment._ The Reader instantly verified. _It’s gold and yellow. Does that mean-_

                “Alright, then.” The masked man nonchalantly adjusted the gloves he was wearing as if there wasn’t someone on the verge of death behind him. His hidden features looked over the captive group. “Am I going to have to keep going, or is one you going to tell me where Bertrude is?”

                _They’re looking for Bertrude?_ Sam wanted to check the line to see if she was one of the crones being held captive but whoever’s body he was currently seeing through was focused only on the perpetrator of their captivity before them.

                The Reader could hear small movements among them. Some groaned and swore in anger, others breathed nervously. But not one of them surrendered their leader.

                “No?” His voice sounded almost theatrical, as if he was playing a character on a stage, anticipating the audience’s reaction. “Then I suppose we’ll just have to keep going.” He turned back around to the injured woman, and positioning himself to her side so that he could easily look to the captive bog-crones and his target, he lifted the edge of his blade under her chin, lifting it so that he could look her in the eye. The woman had recovered to the point where she was rasping in and out more steadily, and her violet eyes met the man, looking to her side.

                He moved the sword around a bit, causing different parts of her head to face him as if he was inspecting her. “But this one’s looking a bit… done.” He pulled his sword out from under her head and raised it high. “I’ll just kill her and then we can start again with another one of yo-“

                “We are the one you seek!”

                The words radiated out, loud and powerful. Every armed person’s head jolted in Sam’s direction. It was then he realized that the words came from him, or rather whoever his mind was currently occupying.

                “You know ussss as Bertrude. Spare the innocent.”

                Said innocent looked up, her battered features suddenly gaining a surprised expression. “Gil-“

                The masked man’s boot slammed her head into the dirt, quieting the bog-dweller. He marched over to her, his companions all readying their weapons in case any of the crones tried anything. The man’s boots didn’t bother avoiding the piles of mud, causing wet _squelches_ to originate from them as he sauntered. Arriving just in front of the Reader’s vision, he knelt down, looking her in the eye. “You’re Bertrude.”

                “Thissss is true.”

                The voice that Sam felt a tongue foreign to him emit was coarse, hissing and rough, but not that of Bertrude. Similar, but perhaps a bit older. The Reader had met few crones before his exile and thus was unknowing of their exact biology and differences between each other.

                The man’s gloved hands went to his mask and pulled it off, letting it hang from his free hand as he looked at the crone. The Reader’s initial suspicions were confirmed. Steel-gray hair fell around both sides of his head, and focused brown eyes scanned every inch of his target. It was Lendel, definitely.

                _But why?_ Sam knew Lendel was exiled for corruption but he had always come off to the Reader as staunch and stubborn in the belief that he was a constable of integrity, despite his actions and his rash words. But even so, that Lendel he had met during the Rites never seemed a capable of torture and such bloodshed.

                It was then Sam began to notice a few things. They were small and likely wouldn’t have been caught by anyone who hadn’t seen him before. The way his hair fell in wispy strands rather than the full locks, the way his eyes seem to carry deeper, darker circles under them then they did before, and the way the ocular organs seemed to possess small, black dots against the white, and hints of dark veins, almost as if they were bloodshot.

                And the uncharacteristic smile coming from his stretched lips.

                “So, you finally reveal yourself?”

                The crone didn’t say anything, opting instead to simply stare at him, their eyes meeting. Lendel looked at her for a few more seconds and then shrugged. He turned back around and went over to the injured woman, who he knelt down next to.

                “Is that really Bertrude?”

                The bog-dweller didn’t respond, her pain causing her only to reply to Lendel by giving out hoarse coughs.

                The robed man’s hand lurched out into her hair, yanking her head upwards to meet his face, which has morphed into a frown. “I asked you a question!”

                “Yessss! Bertrude lies before thee!”

                And then Lendel was all smiles again. “Well, that’s our verification.” Releasing her, he gestured with his sword as he began his march toward the body the Reader was inhabiting. “We’re just about done here. I’m heading back after I kill this one, the rest of you finish up and meet up with me when you’re done.”

                Once he was standing in front of his soon-to-be victim, he grasped her throat in an all too similar fashion, and raised her up so that they were about eye-level. It was a strange sensation, Sam could both feel himself being strangled and at the same time, realize consciously he was actually fine. Nonetheless, he couldn’t help but feel panic flood through his veins as Lendel angled the sword to pierce her chest. He looked at her one more time, him unknowingly looking directly into the Reader’s eyes, and quirked an eyebrow. Before Sam could question it the blade shot forward, it’s sharp, jagged edge piercing her-no, his chest, his lungs, his heart, his breath seized up as his arms began to shake and he tried to breath only causing blood to spurt out of his mouth, pain radiated through him, pain surrounded him, pain was all he could feel, pain pain pain-

                Sam gasped, lurching forward. His eyes darted around him, scanning his nearby surroundings. He was behind a familiar, large jagged rock, leaning against it. Almer was to his side and looking at him worriedly, and from the distance he could see the burning encampment.

                “You’re back?” Almer raised his arm as if to touch his shoulder but stopped, hesitant.

                “Y-yes. I’m back…” Sam took in deep breaths, the phantom sensation of being stabbed slowly dissipating.

                “You looked like you were in a trance, there.”

                He felt the orb in his clothes vibrate with a slight intensity, and he reached in to put his hands on it, calming the dweller within.

                “I was, in a way. I was projecting myself into the consciousness of one of the bog-crones…”

                Almer’s nose crinkled. “What?”

                “I was seeing through her eyes, so to speak.”

                “So you used your ‘Reader powers’ to jump bodies?”

                _That’s a very crude explanation,_ Sam thought. His body wasn’t unconscious, Almer said that he had looked like he was in a trance. So he didn’t completely leave, it would seem.

                “More like I… was taking a temporary peek.”

                The young Oldheart still looked confused but ceased with the questions. His eyes did look to something past the Reader, though. “Look!”

                Sam turned. Moving over to the duo in a sort of half-crouch were three figures, the middle one being carried by the two on the side. Ti’zo was flying just above them, his silhouette easily to recognize. As the trio approached the Reader made out that it was a crone being carried by Shanna and another of its kind. He recognized her as she approached.

                “Bertrude?”

                The crone looked up, her head looking more like a brown mop of snakes than hair, returned the Reader’s gaze. She looked more or less the same as when Sam had last seen her, but her breathing sounded labored. A large satchel was swung around her torso, the bag hanging from her side.

                “Ye have a blackwagon, yessss?” The crone from beside her asked.

                Sam turned to her. This crone he didn’t recognize. “Y-yes, we do. What of it?”

                “She’s a friend of Bertrude’s.” Shanna chimed in.

                “Take her and flee this place, boy. The brigandssss come for her, they musn’t achieve their goal.” The crone looked over Almer. “Boy, assist usss.”

                The crone switched place with Almer, who was now holding Bertrude’s arm over his shoulder. Bertrude looked over to her comrade. “Do not leave usss....”

                “Ye know as much as we do that thee do not intend to leave any alive.” The bog-dweller reached into her thick garments, pulling out two glass vials with each hand, both enclosed and containing bubbling green liquids. “We shall not let our kin be ssssslayed in vain.”

                “Do not throw ye life away, Merwig.” Bertrude let out a few hoarse coughs. “Thy carry many weapons, thy enchantments carry little hope of victory.”

                “Any of ussss would give our livess for thee, Bertrude. And we shall not let their intrusion go unpunished.”

                Bertrude was never an easy person to read, but Sam saw what might have been the most emotion he’d ever seen her display. Within a moment it was gone, however, and she simply nodded solemnly.

                The other crone nodded as well, and without further ado began slithering over to the flaming encampment. Sam was always impressed at the sheer speed the dwellers of the Southern Bogs could move, and Merwig was no exception, her shape quickly slipping behind one of the flaming buildings.

                “Enough, then.” All heads turned to Bertrude. “Take usss back to the Blackwagon and flee this place while ye still can. There is much to discuss.”             

* * *

 

                Shanna had informed Sam of what happened once they were safe from view and in the skies again. She and Ti’zo had spotted a crone trying to free another from a piece of wreckage that must have split off as a result of the buildings being burned. Upon closer inspection she almost had a vial of acid thrown onto her face, but managed to convince the crone that she was not an enemy. Apparently Bertrude had hidden when they were searching the encampment, and once they lit the camp aflame, she was trapped by a piece of the ceiling that had fallen in her cabin. Merwig too had avoided the search and was trying to free her friend and leader. It was Ti’zo who Bertrude recognized, and he informed her of the Blackwagon and validated Shanna’s claims.

                Now they were sitting in the wagon as it soared in the skies, heading south with no current destination. Bertrude was bruised but not badly injured. The Reader was no doctor but it wasn’t hard to determine that the wounds would simply have to heal in time. If she were a nomad, savage, or even demon he’d suggest she may have bruised her ribs, but Sam knew little of crone anatomy, and Bertrude insisted that she’d be fine anyway. Almer piloted with the rest situated at the table. Ti’zo and the bog-dweller exchanged slight pleasantries but it was clear that the sacrifice of her friend had put the crone into a solemn mood, creating a heavy atmosphere. The reunion of the remaining Nightwings was not a very happy one.

“I saw Lendel.” Sam said, breaking the silence. “I have no idea who the people he was with were or why he was doing what he did, but that was definitely him.”

                “Lendel?” Shanna rested her head on the edge of her wing.

                “The leader of the Accusers: another triumvirate.” Sam clarified.

                “Scraaa-hoo!” Ti’zo added.

                “Something was off about him, though.” As Sam spoke he saw Bertrude merely staring forward blankly, her fingers swirling her spoon through the stew Sam had prepared for her. “I’m not entirely sure what, but he was… different, like he was being-“

                “Influenced.” Bertrude’s voice cut him off.

                “Influenced?” Shanna quirked an eyebrow. He noticed her feet rubbing together nervously under the table. The Reader couldn’t blame her, he was just as apprehensive around Bertrude as she was now when they had first met.

                “Aye. He was being influenced. We speak not of what ye likely think of, but influence of a mental fashion.”

                Sam’s fingers tapped against the table as he narrowed his eyes curiously. “As if he was being controlled? By what, another Reader?”

                “Nay, not controlled, _influenced_.” The bog-crone turned to the Reader, her icy blue eyes meeting his own. Sam’s reflexes still softly told him to immediately shrink back, as all did around the terrifying Big Bertrude, but having spent time around her he learned not to cower from her. It was definitely a hard-taught muscle memory, though. “Lendel still held control, but was being… directed. It was his Enlightenment that allowed such.”

                “Enlightenment?” Almer spoke up from his place piloting the Blackwagon, his head turned in their direction. “You mean of the Scribes? Of the Rites?”

                Bertrude nodded, lifting her spoon to send some broth down her throat. “The abilitiessss of a Reader are not the only ability one retrieves from the Rites. The Enlightenment one gains from the Rites are a power within themselves, and allows thy holder to… succeed more.”

                “Kraaa-hi?” Ti’zo asked, curious of what she meant by ‘succeed.’

                “In a manner of speaking.” She clarified. “’Tis no coincidence that thee with the most Enlightenment succeed more in the Ritesssss. The same applies to other endeavors. Perhaps it is a blessing of the Scribes, or an adornment of the starsss.”

                “What does that have to do with the attack?” Almer pulled a rope causing the Blackwagon to slightly lift toward its left side for a moment before balancing.

                “We have resided in the Downside for many yearssss. We have realized that similarly, those with Enlightenment are more receptive to the guidance of a Reader in the Ritessss.”

                “So… what, being in the Rites makes you an easier target for this ‘Reader mind control’?” Shanna’s curiosity seemed to overpower her fear of the crone.

                “It is to assist in the Rites, we imagine.” Bertrude’s eyes became focused as she took another spoonful of stew into her mouth and placed it back into the bowl, her eyes meeting those of everyone around her. “But there were multiple thingssss that must also be discussed. We sensed the presence of others when the attackers came. The darkness of the Astral-born is what we sensed.”

                _Yslach?_ Sam was about to say the name aloud but stopped himself. Bertrude has never had any reservations of vocalizing the supposedly power-invoking name. Why would she refer to him as that now? “What do you mean?” He asked.

                “The darkness of the star-titan followed the attackerssss, along with the presence of a Reader in thy minds.”

                Sam perked up, his posture straightening. “Another Reader? Were they there?” He had asked around a bit with Almer in Hollowroot but didn’t get any positive answers.

                The crone shook her head. “Presence was, but we saw naught of any presence, physically.”

                The Reader considered that. He knew that Bertrude has a history with strange enchantments and magic, so he wasn’t surprised that she could sense such things. But to be able to influence multiple people without even being near them? Sam considered himself a rather adept Reader when it came to the Rites, and he never tried using his abilities on more than one person, let alone doing it from a separate location! “Is such a thing even possible?”

                “So it would seem.”

                “Well then what are we supposed to do?” Shanna said, her face having been looking between each of them. “Just let this mysterious Reader grab people with Enlightenment? We don’t even know who they are or what they want!”

                “Nay, but we know thee carries the darknessss of thy worst Greater Titan with them, and that they burned our home. We cannot let them succeed.”

                “What do you suggest?” Sam folded his hands on the table.

                “Find the Enlightened, and ensure they do not fall into the clutches of this other Reader.”

                “Wait a second,” Almer interrupted. “You mean any Rite-participants? Because a lot of them aren’t very friendly.”

                “Look for the leaders.” Bertrude said. “They likely carry the most.”

                Sam groaned, realizing the implications of the duty before them. “You realize a lot of them don’t like us, right?”

                Bertrude simply nodded once again.

                Sam sighed again. He didn’t exactly know where everyone went but he had a pretty good idea where the closest one would be. “Almer, set a course for Black Basin.”


End file.
